B  E  R  K  E  L  E  Y    \ 

LIBRARY 

UMIVfflWTY  Of 


r 


HER  MEMORY 


I 


BY   MAARTEN   MAARTENS. 


Each,  12mo,  cloth,  gilt,  $1.50. 

HER  MEMORY* 

WITH    PHOTOGRAVURE   PORTRAIT. 
After  Maarten  Maartens's  long  silence  this  new 
example  of  his  fine  literary  art  will  be  received  with 
peculiar  interest.     He  offers  in  this  book  a  singu- 
larly delicate  and  sympathetic  study  of  character. 

"  Maarten  Maartens  took  u-  all  by  storm  some  time  ago 
with  his  fine  story  christened  '  God's  Fool. '  He  established 
himself  at  once  m  our  affections  as  a  unique  creature  who 
had  something  to  say  and  knew  how  to  say  it  in  the  most 
fascinating  way.  He  is  a  serious  story  writer,  who  sprang 
into  prominence  when  he  first  put  his  pen  to  paper,  and  who 
has  ever  since  kept  his  work  up  to  the  standard  of  excel- 
lence which  he  raised  in  the  beginning." — N,  V.  Herald. 

THE  GREATER  GLORY. 

"Maarten  Maartens  in  'The  Greater  Glory '  has  even 
eclipsed  his  fine  performance  in  the  writing  of  '  God's 
Fool.'  This  new  work  deals  with  high  life  in  Holland,  and 
the  Dutch  master  has  portrayed  it  with  the  touch  of  true 
genius.  The  story  is  full  of  color  and  of  dramatic  situations 
delicately  wrought  out." — Philadelphia  Press. 

Gorys  FOOL. 

"The  story  is  wonderfully  brilliant.  .  .  .  The  interest 
never  lags  ;  the  style  is  realistic  and  intense ;  and  there  is 
a  constantly  underlying  current  of  subtle  humor.  ...  It 
is,  in  short,  a  book  which  no  student  of  modern  literature 
should  fail  to  read." — Boston  Times. 

JOOST  AVELINGH. 

"  We  are  given  a  glimpse  of  Dutch  politics,  and  more 
than  a  glimpse— a  charming,  all-round  view  of  Dutch 
people  at  home." — New  York  Times. 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY,  NEW  YORK. 


li 


yVL  iLcuiU^    fj^  >cci>^Uc*^ 


HER    MEMORY 


BY 

MAARTEN    MAARTENS 

AUTHOR   OF   god's    FOOL,    JOOST   AVELINGH, 
THE    GREATER    GLORY,    ETC. 


D. 


NEW  YORK 
APPLETON    AND    COMPANY 


Copyright,  1898, 
By  D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY. 


I 


fiMj^ 


1s^ 


HER    MEMORY 


CHAPTER  I. 

She  lay  dying,  in  the  silent  summer  even- 
ing— in  the  sunlit  summer  silence  that  seems 
alive  with  sound.  The  long  shadows  deep- 
ened round  hfer,  through  the  depths  of  tran- 
quil sunset.  The  soft  shadows,  all  around 
her,  closing  in  upon  the  sunlight  of  her  life. 

He  knew  it.  He  sat  beside  the  bed,  his 
arms  fallen  between  his  knees,  his  face  flung 
forward,  intense  with  straining,  as  if  to  draw 
her  back  before  she  slipped  away!  During 
ten  short  years — a  moment — she  had  filled 
his  life  with  summer:  she  had  been — she  was 
— his  sunrise:  his  day  was  young  yet,  young 
as  hers — God,  the  day  is  brief  enough,  at  best: 


118 


2  HER  MEMORY. 

it  doesn't  end  at  noon!  There  are  clouds 
enough  at  best,  and  mists  across  the  morning 
— but,  oh  God,  the  sun  must  run  his  Httle 
course  before  he  sinks  into  the  sea! — she  lay 
dying,  in  her  early  prime  of  womanhood:  the 
stealthy  shadows  blackened  on  the  whiteness 
of  the  room. 

She  opened  her  eyes,  and  looked  at  him. 
"  Anthony,"  she  said,  in  a  voice  like  that  of  a 
stranger,  speaking  very  low  and  calm,  "  I 
want  you  to  fetch  her,  please." 

He  rose  hastily  and  walked  to  the  win- 
dow, gazing  out,  seeing  nothing.  He  re- 
belled against  this  inevitable  desire  of  hers, 
the  leave-taking  from  their  only  child.  And 
he  crept  away,  with  laggard  step,  to  the  far- 
ther side  of  the  house,  and  took  the  child's 
hand  from  her  toys,  and  brought  her. 

In  the  grey  death-chamber,  by  the  bed- 
side, the  child  stood  solemn,  accustomed  of 
late  to  sickness,  her  little  face  accepting  the 
sadness  all  around. 


HER   MEMORY.  3 

"  Margaret,"  said  the  father,  "  it  is  Httle 
Margaret."  The  child  wondered:  none  but 
her  grandmother  ever  called  her  "  Margaret." 
The  dying  woman  again  unclosed  her 
eyes,  to  more  than  their  natural  width. 
"  Margaret,"  she  responded:  the  word  sank 
like  an  echo  in  measureless  abysms  of  passion. 
He  saw,  as  she  lay  immovable  upon  the  pil- 
low, he  saw  all  her  soul  well  up  towards  them: 
for  one  moment  he  felt  it  blend  with  his  and 
mingle  as  never  in  all  their  happy  years  of 
union — then,  a  terrible  change  came  over  the 
eyes:  they  broke:  the  child  trembled  under  his 
hand,  cried  out:  the  doctor  ran  in!  the  nurse! 
— the  room  seemed  full  of  people,  of  hideous, 
unbearable  commotion — an  immense  cloud 
had  fallen  between  him  and  the  bustle  round 
the  bed. 

He  drew  back,  watching  their  busy  move- 
ments, and  the  tumult  of  his  impressions,  as  he 
watched,  seethed  down  rapidly  into  a  resolve 
to  resist.    "  Doctor,"  he  said,  "  what  are  you 


4  HER   MEMORY. 

doing?  "  For  the  moment  nobody  answered 
him.  "  You  are  disturbing  us,"  he  continued 
angrily.  "  Mrs.  Stollard  wished  to  speak  to 
me.  She  had  sent  for  the  child."  The  doctor 
turned  from  the  bed,  a  rough  man,  uncouth. 
"  She  will  never  speak  to  you  again,  Mr.  Stol- 
lard," he  said. 

The  husband  made  one  great  stride  for- 
ward. "  Liar! "  he  said,  and  pushed  back 
the  meddling  physician,  not,  certainly,  in- 
tending to  hurt  him,  pushed  him  back  over  a 
stool  or  a  cushion,  on  to  a  couch.  "  Oh,  Mr. 
Stollard,  oh  sir,  come  away!  "  exclaimed  the 
sick  nurse :  he  bent  over  the  dead  woman  and 
suddenly  lifted  her  high  in  the  air.  He  faced 
them  with  his  burden  enwrapped  in  clinging 
linens :  he  saw,  through  the  twilight,  the  vul- 
gar, frightened  expressions  around  him;  he 
saw  the  child  sobbing,  half  hidden  in  her 
nurse's  lap.  Without  a  word  he  passed  from 
them,  bearing  his  burden,  through  the  door, 
and  the  long  passage,  downstairs. 


¥ 


HER   MEMORY.  5 

The  doctor  sat  up  and  brushed  his  arm. 
*'  He  knows  she's  dead,"  he  said.  "  He 
wouldn't  have  moved  her,  if  he  hadn't  known 
she  was  dead." 


CHAPTER   II. 

The  husband,  erect  and  slow,  directed  his 
steps  to  a  room  which  had  lain  unused  for  the 
last  three  weeks,  his  wife's.  As  he  entered, 
his  arms  shook.  There  were  flowers  here — 
great  masses — in  vases,  as  usual:  the  gar- 
dener had  gone  his  daily  round;  the  machin- 
ery of  the  house  moved  on.  The  room 
looked  horribly  unaltered:  he  laid  down  the 
beautiful  burden  from  his  arms,  on  the 
familiar  couch  in  the  great  bay  window. 
And  he  turned  quickly,  to  double-lock  the 
door. 

Seven  years  ago,  that  time  she  had 
sprained  her  ankle,  he  had  carried  her  down 
like  this,  day  by  day,  for  a  month.  She  was 
very  young  and  lovely  then.  She  was  very 
lovely  still.    And  young. 


HER   MEMORY.  7 

When,  at  last,  he  looked  up  from  the  mus- 
ing into  which  he  had  fallen,  on  the  low  chair 
by  her  side,  all  shapes  in  the  room  were  grown 
indistinct  with  dusk.  He  sprang  to  the  win- 
dow-curtains and  tore  them  aside — tore  them 
away,  in  sudden  descents  of  dark  drapery, 
feverishly  anxious  to  see  clearly,  to  distin- 
guish each  feature,  to  have  light  all  about, 
full  upon  her — not  this  increasing  darkness — 
light!  ^ 

And  as  the  remorseless  gloom  sank  faster, 
he  bent  close,  resting  his  hot  cheek  against 
her  cold  one,  whispering  her  name.  A  fold 
of  falling  curtain  had  carried  down  with  it  a 
table  full  of  knickknacks:  he  had  not  re- 
marked the  crash.  But  he  noticed  that  a  slip 
of  linen  had  dropped  away  from  the  half-bared 
arm,  and  he  gently  drew  it  up  again. 

He  realised  nothing,  reasoned  about  noth- 
ing, desired — for  the  moment — nothing,  ex- 
cept, perhaps,  that  the  advancing  night 
should  pause.     When  the  room  had  grown 


8  HER   MEMORY. 

quite  dark,  with  sultry  summer  darkness,  he 
rose  to  his  feet  and  Hghted  all  the  candles  in 
a  great  porcelain  chandelier  overhead, 
lighted  all  the  candles  in  numerous  sconces 
and  Dresden  ornaments,  against  the  mir- 
rors and  shiny  hangings,  went  on  light- 
ing candles,  that  had  never  burnt  in  such 
abundance  before — his  hand  so  shaky  that 
he  knocked  off  bits  of  flowers  and  leaves 
from  the  brittle  china — went  on  multiplying 
bright  reflections,  till  the  little  rounded  cham- 
ber, all  .pale  silk  and  porcelain,  shone,  opal- 
escent, like  the  inside  of  a  shell.  He  could 
draw  no  blinds,  for  he  had  broken  the  cords: 
beyond  the  great  window  the  blue  night  beat 
against  the  blaze.  Somebody  stealthily  tried 
the  door-handle.  There  were  steps  on  the 
gravel  outside,  and  once  came  the  sound  of 
carriage-wheels.  Single  stars  crept  forth 
above  the  distant  wall  of  trees.  A,  blackbird 
started  its  loud  call,  and  stopped.  Everything 
was  still,  expectant,  holding  its  breath.     He 


HER  MEMORY.  g 

only  expected  nothing,  sitting  watching  in 
the  yellow  glare. 

All  through  the  night  he  sat  thus,  watch- 
ing. The  terrified  domestics,  alone  with  the 
sleeping  child,  whispered  and  stared  at  each 
other.  Far  adown  the  country-side  shone  the 
radiance  from  the  terrace-window:  the  serv- 
ants, peeping  round  a  corner,  discussed  it  un- 
der their  breath,  sore-troubled,  delighted, 
amazed.  The  footman,  who  read  books, 
vaguely  mentioned  "  funereal  pyres; "  the 
women-servants  thrilled  responsive;  the  un- 
der-housemaid  slipped  upstairs,  escorted,  to 
fetch  her  ear-rings:  old  nurse  brought  down 
her  charge,  to  an  improvised  bed  in  the  break- 
fast-room. 

They  were  all  of  them  attached  to  their 
employers,  within  reasonable  limits  of  menial 
devotion.  Their  master  was  an  honourable 
man,  a  gentleman:  they  were  honestly  sorry 
for  him,  wondering  what  changes  would  come 


to  HER   MEMORY. 

to  themselves,  primarily  nonplussed  by  this 
extravagant  conduct  to-night.  "  You  must 
telegraph  to  Sir  Henry,"  the  doctor  had  said 
to  the  butler,  as  the  two  went  stealing  back 
from  the  boudoir  door;  "  Sir  Henry,  I  sup- 
pose, is  in  London:  is  he  not?  "  The  butler 
did  not  know:  Mr.  Stollard's  elder  brother  so 
seldom  came  to  Thurdles,  the  household 
hardly  cared  about  his  movements.  "  But  I 
think,"  said  the  butler,  cautiously,  "  that 
Stawell  Court  is  closed."  Stawell  Court  was 
the  family  seat,  about  seven  miles  away. 

"  Well,  then,  nothing  remains  but  to  send 
for  Mrs.  Fosby,"  said  the  doctor  testily. 
"  And  a  natural  thing  to  do,  she  being  the 
poor  dead  lady's  mother.  But  I  always  pre- 
fer to  have  a  man  on  the  scene  first.  Women 
are  no  good,  except  for  crying,  a  thing  any 
one  can  do  who  is  paid  for  it,  as  they  under- 
stand in  the  East.  Good-night!"  He  turned 
in  the  hall-door:  "  Do  you  want  me  for  any- 
thing? "  he  asked. 


HER   MEMORY.  n 

The  butler's  family-pride  rose  within  him, 
though  he  was  not  an  old  family  servant.  "  I 
thank  you,  sir,"  he  made  answer,  "  no,  I  think 
we  can  manage,  sir."  And  he  went  down- 
stairs, feeling  miserably  forlorn,  and  respon- 
sible, with  that  great  glare  across  the  gravel 
road,  and  the  barred  door  within  the  house, 
and  all  this  helpless  woe.  "  The  doctor  ain't 
no  gentleman,"  he  said  to  the  other  servants, 
*'  I  shall  send  a  messenger  to  Mrs.  Fosby. 
You  must  find  me  a  messenger,  John."  The 
servants  detested  their  mistress's  mother, 
but  they  would  be  eager  to  welcome  her 
now. 

"  He  said  as  he  preferred  a  man — for  to 
manage  things,"  said  the  butler,  with  a  grin. 
A  shout  went  up,  immediately  suppressed. 
"  She'd  manage  us  alive  or  dead,  'd  Mrs.  Fos- 
by," remarked  the  unthinking  housemaid. 
"Lor',  Adelaide,  how  can  you!"  squeaked 
cook.  All  the  servants  cried  out  upon  Ade- 
laide, who  sat  down,  very  red  and  snifTy,  sev- 


12  HER   MEMORY. 

eral  times  repeating  she  should  say  anything 
she  chose. 

"  It  is  absurd,"  said  Mrs.  Fosby,  on  the 
doorstep  next  morning,  in  the  clear  light  of 
the  summer  day.  All  the  way  up  from  the 
town,  on  whose  farther  side  she  lived,  suburb- 
anly,  she  had  stared  at  the  wan  window  that 
stared  down  at  her.  Now,  having  alighted 
from  the  fly,  she  had  cautiously  stared  under 
cover  of  the  rhododendrons.  She  could 
hardly  steady  her  impatient  foot,  as  she  lis- 
tened to  Nurse  Lintot's  lucubrations.  "  It  is 
terribly  sad,  and  my  child  is  taken — taken 
from  me:"  her  lip  shook — "taken  from  us. 
Sad  enough, — God  knows! — without  this 
very  extraordinary  com — plication.  Lintot, 
this  scandal  must  be  stopped  at  once.  By  the 
bye,  it  was  extravagant  of  Hawkin  to  send 
me  a  messenger.  Stopped  at  once!  Every- 
body will  be  talking  in  Rusborough.  And 
what  will  the  county  say?  " 


HER   MEMORY.  1 3 

"  The  Lord  knows,  ma'am,"  said  Lintot 
sobbing. 

"  I  do  not,"  replied  Mrs.  Fosby  emphat- 
ically. Without  the  remotest  sense  of  having 
said  anything  incongruous  she  swept  into  the 
hall. 

Mrs.  Fosby  was  a  good  woman:  it  would 
be  a  great  mistake  to  imagine  she  was  not. 
An  unUkely  mistake,  for  she  possessed  a  large 
store  of  such  second-rate  virtues  as  any  aver- 
age community  is  swift  to  recognise.  Su- 
premely respectable  herself,  she  loved,  hon- 
oured, and  served  respectability  all  the  days 
of  her  common-place  life.  She  had  never 
done  anything  that  any  of  her  associates 
deemed  wrong.  She  belonged  to  the  upper 
middle  class,  for  her  husband  had  been  able 
to  "  retire  "  from  something  substantial  in  the 
city;  her  religion  was  the  Church  of  England, 
and  her  worship  the  stratum  immediately 
above  her.  She  had  been  "  blessed,"  as  she 
fully  realised,  in  her  only  child,  Margaret,  who 


14  HER   MEMORY. 

had  succeeded,  with  admirable  tact,  in  leaving 
her  mother's  feelings  unhurt,  and  her  own  un- 
injured, growing  up  pure  and  good,  without 
giving  or  taking  offence.  Once  only  there 
threatened  a  fateful  divergence,  when  Mar- 
garet refused  her  first  suitor,  a  baronet,  on 
the  sands  of  Llandudno;  but  the  baronet 
turned  out  a  Mysterious  Musician,  and  Mrs. 
Fosby  ate  humble  pie.  The  girl  herself,  from 
whose  gold  her  mother's  gilding  dropped 
harmless,  unconsciously  and  innocently  con- 
formed in  the  temple  of  Rimmon,  while  busy 
with  her  own  white  thoughts  and  prayers. 
And  the  god  Snob  was  merciful  to  her;  or 
perhaps  he  is  weary  of  virgin  holocausts.  An- 
thony Stollard  fell  in  love  with  her  and  she 
with  him.  Anthony,  who  belonged  not  only 
to  an  old  county  family — every  one  in  the 
country  does  that — but  to  a  family  mansion, 
a  baronetcy  (Victorian),  and  a  handful  of 
apocryphal  pictures.  Anthony  was  the  happy 
possessor  of  a  competency  and  moderate  ill- 


HER   MEMORY.  1 5 

health.  He  was  the  unhappy  possessor  of  an 
artistic  temperament,  and  an  adequate  talent 
for  painting.  Had  he  been  gifted  with  genius, 
his  fortune  would  hardly  have  hampered  him; 
had  he  been  destitute  of  means,  his  art-love 
could  have  done  him  no  harm.  As  it  was, 
he  painted,  frequently  with  pains,  and  his  pic- 
tures were  taken  by  the  Galleries,  and  the 
critics  said  they  showed  various  most  admi- 
rable qualities,  and  he  gave  them  away  to  his 
friends. 

When  they  married  he  was  twenty-five 
and  she  was  twenty.  In  his  case,  at  any  rate, 
there  had  been  love  at  first  sight.  Their  mar- 
ried life  lasted  through  an  almost  cloudless 
decade.  During  ten  years  of  that  time  he 
loved  her  for  her  beautiful  face,  during  nine 
for  her  beautiful  soul.  He  thought  there  was 
no  better,  fairer  woman.  He  never  looked  at 
others.     He  painted  sheep. 

"  It  is  absurd,"  said  Mrs.  Fosby,  sitting  in 


1 6  HER   MEMORY. 

the  breakfast-room,  beside  Margie's  disor- 
dered bed.  The  old  lady  was  dressed  in  tem- 
porary black,  and  looked  very  pale  and  state- 
ly. "  As  if  we  were  not  miserable  enough 
already,  without  making  ourselves  ridicu- 
lous! ''  And  Mrs.  Fosby  broke  down,  weep- 
ing womanly  tears.  For  she  was  a  womanly, 
warm-hearted  old  lady,  and  the  things  she 
loved  best  on  earth,  far  better  than  herself, 
were  her  daughter,  and  the  god  Snob,  and 
her  daughter's  husband  and  child. 

So  presently,  having  dried  her  tears,  she 
asked  for  "  Margaret,"  whom  she  never  gave 
less  than  her  full  appellation.  "  If  confusion 
arise,"  she  would  say,  "  it  is  not  of  my  mak- 
ing. My  Margaret,  according  to  the  invari- 
able rule  in  my  family,  was  called  after  her 
maternal  grandmother.  *  Shorts '  and  pet 
names  I  cannot  away  with.  They  stick  t^ 
one,  stupidly,  through  life.  Anthony  must 
do  as  he  pleases,  but  I  refuse  to  address  my 
own  grandchild  as  '  Mops.'  " 


HER   MEMORY.  17 

The  child  came  in,  very  serious,  with  blue 
marks  under  her  eyes,  and  that  strange,  "  un- 
like "  expression  young  children's  faces  so 
readily  assume.  She  hid  away  in  her  grand- 
mother's lap,  and  they  cried  together,  com- 
fortably. For  when  fifty-nine  loves  eight  with 
all  its  heart,  be  sure  that  eight  loves  fifty-nine. 

Not  that  the  grandmother  entirely  ap- 
proved of  the  grandchild.  It  had  been  the 
supreme  triumph  of  the  dead  woman's  tact  to 
get  her  own  way  in  essentials  and  to  let  An- 
thony have  his  in  unessentials,  whilst  leaving 
upon  Mrs.  Fosby's  mind  a  complacent  im- 
pression of  frequently-followed  advice.  But 
there  were  inevitably  matters  which  Mrs.  Fos- 
by  would  have  managed  differently — "  oh, 
very  differently  indeed!"  "However,"  she 
would  honestly  declare,  "  people  know  their 
own  minds  best."  Certainly  she  knew  hers. 
And  most  other  people's. 

"Religion,"   said   Mrs.    Fosby,   "is " 

and  she  paused  to  adjust  her  knitting. 


l8  HER  MEMORY. 

"  Yes,  mamma,"  replied  her  daughter;  for 
Margaret  knew  that  whatever  Mrs.  Fosby  re- 
marked about  religion  was  sure  to  be  correct. 

"  Essential,"  said  Mrs.  Fosby. 

"  Yes,  mamma,"  repeated  Margaret,  fer- 
vently. 

But  "  religion "  is  an  expression  which 
covers  a  multitude  of  sins.  With  Mrs.  Fosby 
it  meant  learning  all  the  Bible-stories  (espe- 
cially those  of  the  Old  Testament)  and  serv- 
ing the  great  god  Snob.  Morally,  it  meant 
trying  not  to  wish  that  Sir  Henry  might  die 
a  bachelor.  "  It  is  the  truth  of  religion  which 
chiefly  appeals  to  mamma,"  declared  Mar- 
garet. 

Her  husband  smiled.  "  Yes,"  he  said, 
"  just  as  its  beauty  appeals  to  me,  and  its 
goodness  to  you.  There  you  have  our  •three 
characters,  combined  in  the  three  attributes. 
It  is  the  story  of  the  Ring.  To  your  mother 
religion  means  devils,  to  me  it  means  angels, 
to  you "    He  paused. 


HER    MEMORY.  1 9 

"Just  human  creatures  looking  up  to 
God/'  she  said. 

He  bent  to  kiss  her.  "  And,  looking  out 
of  human  creatures,  God,"  he  said. 

But  Mrs.  Fosby  had  no  patience  with 
what  she  called  "  theories." 

"  On  the  most  sacred  subjects,"  said  Mrs. 
Fosby,  "  to  my  own  granddaughter,  my  lips 
are  sealed.  Not  for  worlds  would  I  intrude 
upon  her  mother's  task.  Still,  Margaret, 
when  the  child  insisted  upon  splashing  my 
new  silk  dress,  I  was  compelled  to  refer  to  a 
possible  visit  from  the  bogey-man." 

"  Did  she  cry? "  questioned  Margaret 
anxiously. 

"  She  did  not.  I  am  bound  to  confess  she 
informed  me  the  bogey-man  was  there  al- 
ready. It  appears  that,  according  to  An- 
thony, /  am  the  bogey-man!  " 

Anthony,  however,  always  stoutly  main- 
tained that  here  was  a  misconception  on 
somebody's  part,  and,  as  he  liked  his  mother- 


20  HER  MEMORY. 

in-the-law,  on  the  whole,  and  was  both  good- 
tempered  and  honest,  he  deserves  to  be  taken 
at  his  word.  He  undertook,  as  a  sort  of 
amende  honorable,  to  show  Mrs.  Fosby  how 
carefully  Margie  was  instructed  in  what  the 
lady  pleasantly  denominated  "  Bible  Les- 
sons." An  occasion  soon  presented  itself. 
On  a  Sunday  afternoon,  dull,  sluggish,  sug- 
gestive of  three  o'clock  tea,  Margie,  aged 
four-and-a-half,  sat  on  the  drawing-room  car- 
pet, be-starched  and  be-ribboned,  playing 
with  marbles.  These  latter  were  removed 
when  Mrs.  Fosby  drove  up,  and  a  Noah's 
ark  had  been  substituted,  and  Margie's  tears 
had  been  dried,  by  the  tim^  that  grandmamma 
entered  and  kissed  her. 

With  grandmamma  was  the  terrible  Miss 
Murcham,  grandmamma's  spinster  friend,  a 
lady  possessed  of  every  virtue  that  is  most 
honoured  in  the  breach — one  of  those  people 
who  never  drive  or  do  anything  else  on  the 
Sabbath  unless  they  want  to. 


HER   MEMORY.  2 1 

Miss  Murcham,  sweetly  interested  in  Mar- 
gie, took  up  a  nondescript  effigy  from  the 
floor.  "And  this,"  she  said  insinuatingly, 
"  is  Mrs.  Noah's  tortoise-shell  cat." 

"  Moo — moo — cow,"  said  Margie  fiercely, 
snatching  the  animal  away. 

"  A  cow,  is  it?  "  The  spinster  reddened. 
"But  what  a  very  little  one!  It  can't  be 
much  more  than  a  calf,  Margie — an  orange 
calf!  " 

"  Calfs  is  orange,"  said  Margie,  conten- 
tiously. 

"  She  is  thinking  of  the  Bible  picture- 
book,"  interposed  Anthony  prettily:  "the 
Golden  Calf,  you  know.  Miss  Murcham.  It 
is  very  yellow  in  the  picture.  Margie,  tell 
grandma  all  about  the  naughty  Calf." 

"  Toby  bited  it  right  through,"  said  Mar- 
gie.    "  And  Jimmy  squealed." 

"  What?  "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Fosby. 

"  There  is  some  mistake,"  remarked  An- 
thony gravely.     "  Mops  is  referring  to  the 


22  HER   MEMORY. 

little  boy's  leg  that  was  bitten  two  days  ago 
by  the  stable-dog.'' 

"  Yes,  bited  it  in  its  leg  and  it  squealed," 
repeated  Margie. 

"  There  is  no  connection  between  the  two 
subjects,"  said  grandmamma  tartly — "  no 
connection  at  all.  And  I  cannot  comprehend 
Anthony's  fondness  for  ferocious,  not  to  say 
murderous,  brutes.  Sometimes,  indeed,  I  can- 
not but  realise  that  I  come  here  in  danger  of 
my  life." 

"  Oh,  poor  Toby's  been  shot,"  said  An- 
thony. "  They  were  afraid  he  was  going 
mad,  so  they  shot  him  to  make  sure,  and  that 
may  happen  to  anyone — now,  mayn't  it? 
Look  here,  grandmamma.  Mops  knows  a  lot 
out  of  the  Bible,  don't  you.  Mops,  dear?  Give 
her  the  picture-book,  Margaret;  let  her  tell 
about  the  pictures." 

Both  parents  bent  fondly  over  their  dar- 
ling. 

"  It  is  Anthony's  idea,  you  remember," 


HER   MEMORY.  23 

said  Margaret,  proudly;  "  the  engravings  are 
taken  from  celebrated  pictures.  Now,  Mar- 
gie, tell  grandmamma,  what  is  the  little  boy- 
doing  with  the  lamb?  " 

But  Margie,  seated  in  front  of  the  great 
volume  on  the  floor,  all  starch  and  blue  rib- 
bons and  obstinacy,  refused,  after  the  igno- 
minious incident  concerning  the  calf,  to  utter 
a  word. 

"  These  are  Popish  pictures,  my  dear," 
said  Miss  Murcham. 

"  It  does  seem  a  pity,"  assented  Mrs.  Fos- 
by  sadly,  ''  that  all  the  Italian  painters  should 
have  been  Roman  Catholics.  Michael  An- 
gelo,  I  have  been  told,  was  a  Protestant;  but, 
really,  to  judge  by  his  paintings,  an  Italian 
Protestant  might  as  well  be  a  Papist  as  not." 

Margaret  smiled;  but  Anthony  impatient- 
ly turned  over  a  number  of  pages. 

"  Now,  here,"  he  said — "  here  are  the 
parables.  Tell  grandmamma  what  the  old 
man  is  doing,  Mops." 


24 


HER   MEMORY. 


Silence.    Contemplation. 

"  Where  had  the  young  man  been,  Mops? 
Why  was  he  coming  home?  When  his  father 
ran  down  from  the  top  of  the  house,  what  did 
he  say?  " 

More  silence.     Deeper  contemplation. 

"  Now,  Margie,  you  are  very  naughty. 
You  know  perfectly  well.  He  put  a  beautiful 
coat  on  his  back,  and  then  he  put  rings  on  his 
fingers " 

"  And  bells  on  his  toes,"  said  Margie,  sud- 
denly finding  voice. 

But  Mrs.  Fosby  was  by  no  means  so  fool- 
ish a  woman  as  the  careless  generaliser  would 
like  to  think.  When  Anthony — in  his  happy 
days  a  bit  of  a  teaze — informed  her  how  Mar- 
gie, having  hiccoughed  in  the  midst  of  her 
evening  address  to  the  Almighty,  had  paused 
and  courteously  interposed,  "  I  beg  your  par- 
don," before  proceeding,  Mrs.  Fosby  had 
merely   answered :  "  The   child   is   a   gentle- 


HER   MEMORY.  25 

woman  born/'  which  shows  her  to  have  been 
sufficiently  discriminating  in  her  own  pecuHar 
sphere.  Nor  did  she  remember  with  any  par- 
ticular annoyance  the  scene  between  herself 
and  Margie  on  a  day  when  the  child  had  been 
sent  across  to  amuse  her — she  being  confined 
to  the  house  with  a  cold — and  a  desultory 
thunderstorm  had  abnormally  protracted  the 
visit. 

"  You  mustn't  be  afraid  of  the  thunder, 
Margie;  it's  the  angels  talking." 

Far  from  reassured  by  this  view,  Margie 
hid  away  close  under  the  sofa  cushions.  Pres- 
ently, however,  grandmamma  sneezed  several 
times  consecutively.  Margie  drew  forth  her 
head,  half  timidly,  and  watched. 

"  And  is  the  showers  the  angels  sneezing, 
gran'ma?  " 

Into  this  little  circle,  full  of  mutual  love, 
and  the  human  diversities  which  quicken  love, 
came  the  Angel  of  Death  and  cut  the  string 


26  HER  MEMORY. 

that  held  all  the  links  together.  "  Gather  up 
the  fragments,"  He  said  in  passing.  And  one 
poor  human  being,  on  his  knees  in  the  dust, 
holding  together  the  severed  ends  that  crum- 
bled under  his  fretting,  cried  back  that  the 
chain  still  held. 


CHAPTER  III. 

It  was  very  early  in  the  morning — the 
morning  of  the  day  after — when  he  threw 
open  the  boudoir  door,  and  stood  Hstening. 

The  deserted  corridor  was  full  of  the 
awakening  sunlight,  cool  and  golden,  with  a 
hundred  glinting  suggestions  of  glories  to 
come.  He  drew  the  door  to  and  locked  it 
carefully  on  the  outside.  Then  he  hastened 
down  the  solemn  stillness  with  the  step  of  a 
man  who  has  taken  a  great  resolve. 

He  went  up  straight  to  the  nursery.  Both 
rooms  were  deserted;  bars  of  light  fell  be- 
tween the  shutters:  from  the  inner  chamber 
the  child's  cot  had  been  removed,  leaving  an 
immense  forlornness  behind  it.  The  discov- 
ery came  home  to  him  with  a  shock — a  sen- 
sation   of    something    having    happened,    a 

27 


28  HER   MEMORY. 

change.  Something  that  other  people  knew. 
They  were  acting,  the  outsiders.    Life  moved. 

On  the  stairs  a  frightened  undermaid  met 
him,  and  sank  away,  white,  from  his  white 
face,  into  the  dusk.  He  asked  calmly  enough 
where  the  child  was.  In  the  breakfast-room? 
He  went  there,  dully  surprised. 

All  curtains  were  already  drawn  back — 
here  at  the  back  of  the  house — the  room  was 
as  full  of  light  and  brightness  as  possible. 
Nurse  Lintot  sat  droning  a  fairy  tale.  Close 
up  against  the  woman's  arm  lay  little  Mar- 
garet, still  in  her  cot,  white-garmented,  at- 
tentive. 

"  And  the  King  said  to  the  golden-haired 
Princess:  But  why  is  your  name  Misfor- 
tune? " 

The  father  stood  in  the  doorway;  Nurse 
Lintot  dropped  her  book.  "Papa!"  cried 
little  Margaret.  There  was  a  glad  note  in  her 
voice;  he  caught  it,  and  for  the  first  time  a 
sob  rose  to  his  throat. 


HER   MEMORY.  39 

"  Come,"  he  said,  beckoning,  "  I  want 
you  to  come  at  once."  She  crept  out  of  bed, 
obedient,  and  took  his  hand.  "  Put  some- 
thing on  her  feet,"  he  said  gently,  and  led  her 
away  slippered,  bare-legged.  Nurse  Lintot, 
shaking  against  the  doorpost,  watched  them 
down  the  solemn  sunlit  corridor  in  the  shad- 
ow of  the  awakening  day.  She  saw  them  en- 
ter the  room  together — that  room! — and  its 
door  closed  heavily  upon  her  heart. 

Against  the  door,  which  her  father  had 
once  more  locked  behind  them,  the  child 
hung  back,  open-eyed.  There  was  a  fascina- 
tion in  the  unfamiliar  aspect  of  the  long  fa- 
miliar room.  Her  glance  fell  on  the  shreds  of 
china  scattered  here  and  there.  "  Oh,"  she 
exclaimed,  "mamma's  beautiful  chandelier!" 
Her  father  took  no  notice;  he  was  staring 
with  a  terrified,  terrifying  look  at  the  couch 
by  the  window — her  eyes  followed  his — on 
which  mamma  so  often  lay.    And  mamma  lay 


30  HER   MEMORY. 

there  now,  with  face  unveiled,  upturned  to  the 
Hght — mamma,  of  whom  they  had  been  tell- 
ing her  all  yesterday — Nurse  Lintot,  Grand- 
mamma Fosby,  everyone — that  she  had  gone 
to  live  with  the  angels,  gone  to  heaven  (above 
the  sky),  gone  to  live  with  God,  gone,  gone, 
that  she  would  never  see  her  again,  at  least 
never  unless  she  was  very  good;  she  must 
always  be  a  good  little  girl  now,  and  comfort 
her  poor  father,  and  then,  perhaps,  if  she  died 
(which  only  other  children  do),  etcetera. 

"  Mamma! "  she  cried  out,  regardless  for 
the  moment  of  the  awe  which  had  filled  her, 
regardless  of  possible  disturbance,  of  sickness, 
or  sleep,  of  all  things  except  her  mother's 
face.  Suddenly  she  understood — completely. 
God  had  heard  her  unceasing  prayers  of  yes- 
terday— ^for  God  hears  little  children's  prayers 
— and  had  sent  back  from  His  far  away,  an- 
gel-filled heaven  the  mother  she  had  cried  for 
till  Nurse  told  her  it  v^s  naughty  to  cry.  She 
no    longer   observed   the    torn    hangings    in 


HER   MEMORY.  31 

heaps  on  the  floor,  the  sprinkHngs  of  rose- 
leaves  from  the  gutted  candlesticks,  the  dazzle 
of  the  naked  windows  against  the  streaming 
sun — her  glance  flashed  to  her  father,  stand- 
ing expectant. 

"  Mamma!  " 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes,"  he  said,  finding  passion- 
ate utterance.  ''  That's  what  I  want  you  to 
do,  Margie.  That's  what  I  fetched  you 
for.  Think  of  it,  she  can't  hear  me,  Mar- 
gie. She  can't  hear  me.  She  won't  hear 
me.  I  don't  know  which.  I've  been 
calling  to  her  for  hours — for  hours!  I 
couldn't  tell  how  long:  it  doesn't  matter. 
She'd  have  heard  me  by  this  time,  if  she 
could,  I  think.  But  she'll  hear  you,  Margie: 
I  want  you  to  call  her  and  wake  her.  Hush, 
you  needn't  call  very  loud,  not  for  other  peo- 
ple to  hear,  you  know.  She  used  to  hear  you 
when  you  were  a  tiny  baby,  and  when  I  said 
nothing  had  moved,  she  used  to  guess  you 
wanted  her:  she  couldn't  possibly  have  heard. 


32  HER   MEMORY. 

She'll  hear  you  now,  and  wake,  and  answer. 
Margaret!  Margaret!  Oh  my  God — Mar- 
garet! Come  here,  Margie,  come  closer! 
Whisper  in  your  mother's  ear!  " 

The  child  drew  near,  trembling.  She 
stood  by  the  couch,  and,  as  she  leant  forward, 
her  yellow  curls,  in  the  crystal  sunlight, 
mingled  with  the  dead  woman's  darker  locks. 
"  Mamma,"  she  whispered,  under  her  father's 
eager  gaze,  "  mamma!  " 

A  groan  broke  from  the  wretched  watcher. 
''  She  doesn't  hear  you,"  he  exclaimed,  ''  Oh 
Margie,  you  must  call  louder,  too!  "  He  sank 
down  beside  her  and  together  they  murmured 
against  the  impassive  cheek,  that  one  dear, 
unanswered  word.  His  voice  rose  to  a  wail 
of  disappointment;  the  child  burst  into  tears. 

A  long,  dead  silence  ensued  in  the  flower 
and  sun-filled  room.  Outside,  a  chaffinch 
broke  into  carolling:  for  a  moment  the  still 
air  seemed  to  ring  with  a  rejoicing  that  deep- 
ened immediately  into  unendurable  pain.  The 


HER   MEMORY.  33 

widower  rose  to  his  feet  and  kissed  his  little 
daughter.  "  Little  one,  you  must  forgive 
me,"  he  said,  "  come  away!  "  He  threw  open 
the  door.  His  wife's  mother  stood  in  the  cor- 
ridor, hurriedly  summoned  from  a  sleepless 
pillow,  irresolute,  white  to  the  lips.  "  She  is 
dead,"  exclaimed  Anthony,  and  threw  himself 
on  her  breast. 

He  had  scarcely  calmed  down,  when  his 
brother  came  forward  and  held  out  a  sym- 
pathetic hand.  "  He'll  be  all  right  after  this, 
and  a  good  thing  too,"  thought  the  brother. 
For  Henry  Stollard  took  life  simply,  and  al- 
ways behaved  as  everyone  would  expect  him 
to  behave.  A  transparent  nature  himself,  up- 
right and  sensible,  he  thought  everybody  else 
was  sensible  and  transparent  too.  At  the 
sound  of  his  voice,  the  younger  brother 
turned  round,  disengaging  himself,  and  stood, 
apparently  collected. 

"  Oh,  Henry,  is  that  you?  "  he  said,  "  how 


34  HER   MEMORY. 

are  you?  It  was  very  kind  of  you  to  come." 
Then  he  looked  away  and  desired  Lintot  to 
get  Miss  Margie  ready  for  going  out  at  once. 
Mrs.  Fosby,  interposing,  said  something 
about  dress-makers  and  parcels,  and  not  leav- 
ing the  house. — ''  Oh,  what  does  it  matter?  " 
he  answered  quite  gently.  "  We  can  get  what 
she  wants  for  her  anywhere.  Black  clothes 
I  suppose  you  mean — mamma?  "  And  he 
strode  down  the  passage,  thoughtfully  brush- 
ing his  crumpled  sleeve.  His  brother  fol- 
lowed him.  "  Anthony,"  said  Sir  Henry,  "  I 
wish  you  would  listen  to  me  for  just  one  min- 
ute. There  are  some  unavoidable  arrange- 
ments." 

Anthony  stopped.  "  Yes,  of  course,"  he 
said,  "  I  understand  what  you  mean,  quite 
well.  I  wish  you  would  see  to  all  that  for 
me,  Henry.  You  could  not  do  me  a  greater 
service.  To  me  it  is  all  a  matter  of  supreme 
indifference." 

"  All  ?  " 


HER   MEMORY.  35 

"  All." 

"  But,  Anthony,  the  responsibility!  I 
should  be  so  vexed,  if  there  were  anything 
you  would  wish  done  differently!  " 

Anthony  interrupted  him  with  a  weary 
gesture. 

"  There  is  nothing  I  should  wish  done  dif- 
ferently," he  said,  "  because,  you  see,  there  is 
nothing  I  should  wish  done  at  all.  I  am  go- 
ing away  at  once  with  Margie,  for  good. 
This  is  no  place  for  her  or  for  me.  Do  as 
you  like  in  everything.  I  shall  be  so  glad. 
You  are  sure  to  act  right,  Henry.  You  al- 
ways know  what  your  duty  is,  and  you  always 

do  it.     I  mean "     He  hesitated,  flushed, 

imagining  he  had  said  something  unkind. 

"  I'm  so  glad  you  think  so,"  said  Henry 
warmly.  "  I  shall  be  delighted — I  mean,  I 
am  willing  to  do  whatever  I  can  for  you.  But, 
Anthony,  I  don't  understand  about  your  go- 
ing away.  In  this  most  trying  crisis — this, 
this  terrible  affliction,  I  do  trust  that  you  will 


36  HER   MEMORY. 

ask  yourself,  Anthony,  what  Duty  requires  of 
you.  There  are  moments  in  our  Hves,  dear 
Anthony " 

"  There  are,"  said  the  widower.  "  Yes, 
Henry,  you  are  quite  right,  and  many  thanks! 
I  am  so  unfortunate — as  I  have  often  told 
you — I  have  never  in  all  my  life  been  abso- 
lutely sure  what  my  duty  was.  Do  you  know, 
I  have  sometimes  thought  I  should  have 
done  it,  if  I  had."  He  moved  towards  the 
entrance  hall  where  Margie  stood  tremulous- 
ly waiting. 

Sir  Henry  followed,  fresh-coloured,  clean- 
shaven, even  at  that  unaccustomed  hour — a 
sharp  contrast  to  the  other's  haggard  appear- 
ance, the  keen  artist  features,  the  miserable 
eyes. 

"  Duty,  like  a  stern  Preceptor — "  said  Sir 
Henry  in  an  agitated  voice:  he  always  spouted 
one  of  his  few  poets  when  strongly  moved. 
Poetry  and  sentiment  somehow  go  together, 
with  unsentimental  men.     He  hardly  knew 


HER    MEMORY 


37 


what  he  was  saying.  There  rose  up  before 
him  a  vision  of  the  funeral,  the  relations,  An- 
thony's empty  place.     ''  Duty " 

"  I  shall  write  from  London  to-night," 
said  Anthony.  *'  Please,  meanwhile,  do,  all 
of  you,  whatever  you  think  best.  Come,  Mar- 
gie, we  are  going  away  together.  There  is 
nothing  whatever  now  to  keep  us  here." 

The  little  girl  hung  back.  She  would  not 
allude,  in  words,  to  the  treasure  they  were 
leaving  behind,  but  she  looked  up  appealingly 
into  her  father's  face. 

"  There  is  nothing  here,"  he  repeated,  and 
he  drew  her  by  the  hand.  "  Come  with  me, 
Margie.  That  is  best.  Come  away!  "  They 
passed  together  through  the  entrance  door, 
out  into  the  beautiful,  warm,  laughing  sum- 
mer; they  passed  down  the  gravel  slope,  amid 
sunshine  and  singing  and  green  splendour, 
and  away  into  the  bushes,  out  of  sight. 

At  the  corner,  where  the  straining  eyes 
from  the  house  had  lost  them,  he  stopped  and 


38  HER   MEMORY. 

looked  back.  Towards  the  projecting  win- 
dow, the  one,  curtainless,  bay-window.  He 
looked  long,  holding  the  child's  hand.  It  was 
the  farewell  look:  of  that  he  was  resolved:  he 
would  never  return.  At  last  he  gazed  down 
into  the  little  upturned  face.  "  If  she  had 
loved  us,"  she  said,  half  under  her  breath, 
"  she  would  never  have  gone!  " 

Some  country  people  they  met  on  the 
high  road,  recognising  him,  stared  in  aston- 
ishment. He  shrank  under  their  mute  inter- 
rogation. At  the  little  station — an  outpost 
of  Rusborough  Junction — he  quivered  with 
momentary  annoyance.  "Poor  child!"  said 
a  motherly  farm-wife.  He  rebelled  against 
the  words.  He  bought  Margie  a  couple  of 
stale  buns,  sweets,  and  half-a-dozen  illustrated 
papers.  Alone  with  her  in  a  compartment  of 
the  slow  uptrain,  he  talked  brightly,  with 
abundant  promises  of  toys,  and  told  of  the 
glories  awaiting  her  in  London.  But  pres- 
ently he  sank  back  in  his  corner,  and  watched 


HER   MEMORY.  39 

the  green  hedges  steal  endlessly  by.  And  he 
thought  of  his  brother,  and  Sir  Henry's 
Wordsworthian  quotations.  Suddenly,  he 
also  quoted  Wordsworth: 

"And  oh! 
The  difference  to  me  ! " 

He  set  his  teeth  hard,  and  the  tears  in  his 
eyes  stood  still. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

In  London  the  widower  bought  new 
clothes  for  himself  and  his  daughter.  He 
wrote  to  Mrs.  Fosby  that  he  was  going 
abroad,  with  the  child,  for  six  months.  There 
was  absolutely  no  reason  why  he  should  re- 
main in  England;  there  was  one  reason — the 
vault  at  Stawell — why  he  should  wish  to  quit 
the  country.  Mrs.  Fosby  must  have  patience, 
and  so  must  Lintot.  Dear,  gossipy  old  Lintot 
would  understand  that  some  efficient  person 
must  be  found  to  continue  the  early  instruc- 
tion which  had  been  the  mother's  peculiar 
care.  He  would  do  his  very  best  for  the 
child.  He  sought  a  highly-qualified  gov- 
erness, one  of  those  wonders  warranted  to 
teach  far  more  than  any  one  can  learn;  he 

hesitated  about  engaging  a  lady  whose  Greek 
40 


HER   MEMORY.  41 

was  no  more  than  elementary;  at  the  last 
moment  he  carried  off  to  Geneva  a  good  crea- 
ture who  could  read,  write,  and  "  do  sums," 
and  who  had  just  nursed  through  a  fatal  ill- 
ness, with  untiring  devotion,  the  child  of  a 
widower  like  himself.  For  Margaret  his  care 
was  unceasing;  he  bought  her  everything  she 
needed  and  everything  she  asked  for.  The 
one  thing  that  gave  him  pleasure  seemed  to 
be  pleasing  the  child.  And  she,  in  the  de- 
mureness  of  her  eight  smooth  summers,  did 
nothing  to  shame  his  tenderness;  she  asked 
neither  for  an  elephant  nor  for  the  moon. 

So  they  went  away  to  the  azure  Leman, 
and  there  silence  fell  upon  them,  and  peace. 
Gradually  life  again  took  distinct  shape 
around  the  mourner.  Miss  Gray  wrote  home 
that  "to  see  Mr.  Stollard  with  Margaret 
would  make  a  Mahatma  cry."  She  believed 
a  Mahatma  to  be  "  a  cruel  Indian  idol,"  but 
that  is  neither  here  nor  there. 

Quite  unexpectedly,  a  month  after  leav- 


42 


HER   MEMORY. 


ing  England,  Anthony  undertook  his  httle 
daughter's  education,  pleasantly,  conversa- 
tionally, in  walks  and  talks.  "  Sums  "  he 
abandoned  to  the  governess:  the  world  and 
its  inhabitants,  past  and  present,  were  his 
theme.  When  the  first  agony  of  her  bereave- 
ment had  softened  down,  he  no  longer 
"  spoilt  "  the  child  by  visible  indulgence,  but 
sedulously  afforded  her  an  overflow  of  those 
small  pleasures  which  child-nature  so  harm- 
lessly assimilates.  It  was  manifest  that  he 
strove  to  occupy  his  thoughts  with  her  feel- 
ings and  requirements;  his  chief  preoccupa- 
tion was  her  happiness.  Let  her  be  happy,  in 
the  first  place.  ''  Make  her  laugh,"  he  would 
say  to  Miss  Gray;  "  I  should  like  to  hear  her 
laugh  all  day."  He  himself  made  her  laugh. 
"  Who,"  asked  a  guest  of  the  hotel-keeper, 
"  who  is  that  miserable-looking  man?  The 
man  that  romps  with  a  little  girl,  dressed  in 
black?  " 

Of  the  dead  mother  left  behind  them,  the 


HER   MEMORY. 


43 


joy  dropped  from  their  lives,  he  never  spoke. 
The  child  must  be  happy.  Let  the  dead  past 
bury  its  dead.  In  his  own  midday  a  ghost 
walked  incessant;  to  children  a  wise  man 
breathes  no  word  of  ghosts.  From  the  hour 
he  had  crossed  his  ruined  threshold  no  allu- 
sion to  Margaret  passed  his  lips.  He  never 
called  the  child  Margaret.     He  checked  her 

reminiscences.     "  Mamma  used  to  say " 

"  Mamma  used  to  like "  he  turned  the 

conversation  gently,  turned  gradually  the 
current  of  her  thoughts,  but  along  a  dam  of 
suffering  whose  height  he  little  guessed. 

For  the  child  still  clung,  through  mem- 
ories which  daily  grew  fainter,  to  the  dear 
image  she  yearned  not  to  lose.  She  was  eight 
years  old;  she  could  understand  as  much  as 
most  of  us  about  earthly  love  and  death's  con- 
summation, the  mystery  before  and  the  mys- 
tery beyond.  She  longed  to  recall  with  her 
father  the  one  great  happiness  which  already, 
in  her  young  life,  formed  a  past.     ''  We  must 


44  HER   MEMORY. 

render  her  youth  happy,"  said  the  father, 
"  whatever  misfortune  befalls  you  in  after  Hfe, 
nothing  can  rob  you  of  a  happy  childhood. 
And,  please,  you  must  not  mention  her 
mother,  Miss  Gray." 

Once  he  turned  quickly,  having  said  so 
much,  and  came  back  in  the  heavy  dusk. 
"  Does  she?  "  he  said  hoarsely.  He  steadied 
his  voice.  "  Does  she  speak  of  her  mother,  I 
mean?  " 

"  Very  seldom,  indeed,  Mr.  Stollard. 
Hardly  ever,  now." 

''All!" — there  was  pain  in  the  cry. 
"That  is  right;  I  am  very  glad.  Good-even- 
ing, Miss  Gray." 

No,  indeed,  Margie  did  not  care  to  broach 
the  subject  to  her  governess.  With  nervous 
perception  she  had  readily  understood  that 
Miss  Gray's  interest,  however  sincere,  could 
not  be  otherwise  than  perfunctory.  Quite  in 
the  beginning,  at  Paris,  Miss  Gray  had  spoken 
once  or  twice  of  mamma,  for  Margie's  sake. 


HER   MEMORY.  45 

Was  mamma  tall?  Had  she  brown  hair,  or 
black?  The  child  shuddered.  To  speak  thus 
to  a  stranger,  as  of  a  stranger,  made  her 
mother  seem  farther,  not  nearer.  Yet  occa- 
sionally the  fulness  of  her  young  fancies 
swelled  over  her  lips. 

"  Miss  Gray,  I  like  best  to  think  of  mam- 
ma at  night.    I  can  see  her  best  in  the  dark." 

"  Yes,  dear.  But  little  girls  should  sleep 
at  night." 

As  Margie  did,  her  vigils  being  little  more 
than  a  leisurely  closing  of  eyelids. 

And  gradually  the  vision  grew  fainter.  A 
beautiful  phantasm,  very  dissimilar,  took  the 
place  of  the  beautiful  reality.  Pictures  of  the 
Madonna  mingled  with  a  portrait  never  seen 
again.  An  unspeakably  tender  mother, 
WTeathed  in  the  far  glories  of  heaven,  press- 
ing to  her  bosom  her  own  little  motherless 
girl. 


In  the  grown  man's  soul,  on  the  contrary, 
4 


46  HER   MEMORY. 

where  the  clear  image  Hved  omnipresent,  a 
vain  desire  had  awoke  to  forget.  A  small 
impulse  of  resentment  arose  in  his  desolation 
against  the  woman  who  had  left  him,  "  For 
she  was  pure  and  good  and  prayed  to  God 
daily.  If  God  hears  prayers  at  all.  He  must 
hear  such  prayers  as  hers.  Had  she  asked 
Him,  He  would  have  let  her  remain."  That 
was  his  argument,  felt  to  be  foolish  at  first, 
clung  to  all  the  more  vehemently  on  that 
account,  ultimately  accepted,  unreasonable 
or  not. 

"  Mamma  wanted  to  go,"  he  burst  out  one 
evening  to  Margie.  They  were  standing  at  a 
point  where  the  upper  road  from  Vevey 
slopes  down  to  Clarens.  Far  away  before 
them,  against  the  pale  empyrean,  rose  in 
sparkling  serenity  the  many-topped  Dent  du 
Midi.  From  its  granite  foundations  the  broad 
lake  swelled  towards  them,  purple  with  shad- 
ow, dark  against  the  white  masses  of  villas 
that  sank  in  a  half-circle  at  their  feet.     Mar- 


HER   MEMORY.  47 

gie,  in  her  black  frock,  was  aimlessly  picking 
and  dropping  big  daisies  along  the  pretty 
twist  of  road.  Anthony  stood  still,  and  his 
eyes  went  wandering  over  the  vast,  vine-col- 
oured valley,  to  where  the  castle  of  Blonay 
hangs  grey  against  the  hills. 

Margie  desisted  from  her  flower  plucking. 
"Where  to?"  she  asked. 
The  question  took  him  aback.     Already 
he  was  ashamed  of  his  utterance.    He  was  re- 
lieved and  vexed,  to  find  she  had  not  under- 
stood. 

"  Don't      destroy      the      daisies,      Mops. 

What's  the  use   of  killing  things?     There's 

death  enough  in  the  world  without  our  help." 

"  But  there  are  such  lots  of  daisies,  papa!  " 

"Yes,  and  there  are  lots  of  Httle  girls; 

and  each  daisy  can  only  die  once.     Ah,  well! 

this  is  a  beautiful  country,  isn't  it.  Mops?  " 

"  Yes,  papa;  is  it  as  beautiful  as  heaven?  " 

"  No,  no!    Heaven  is  far  more  beautiful." 

"  A  hundred  times  more  beautiful?  " 


48  HER   MEMORY. 

"  Yes,  certainly." 

"  A  hundred  million  billion  times  more 
beautiful?  " 

"  Ye — es,  I  suppose  so.  What  makes  you 
so  exact?  " 

*'  Heaven  can't  be  as  beautiful  as  Switzer- 
land to  mamma,  papa?  " 

"  My  dear  child !  Look  at  that  ox-cart 
creeping  up,  with  the  great  wine  barrels." 

"  She's  all  alone  with  God  in  heaven,  papa, 
she  doesn't  know  any  of  the  angels." 

"  She  is  with  God — she  is  with  God,"  re- 
plied the  father  passionately. 

^'  But  she  could  have  been  in  Switzerland 
with  God,  too,  papa.  She  always  said  God 
was  everywhere,  and  we  can't  be  everywhere, 
like  God." 

"  She  is  nearer  to  God  in  heaven,  Margie, 
and  she  loves  God  so  much,  she  wants  to  be 
nearest  Him  first." 

He  could  not  keep  all  bitterness  out  of  the 
word. 


HER   MEMORY.  ^g 

Margie  shook  her  head. 

"  I  don't  beheve  it  one  bit,"  she  said.  "  I 
don't  think  you  quite  know,  papa.  You  see, 
you  can't  be  sure.  But  I'm  sure  that,  if  God 
would  only  let  her,  she'd  come  back  to  us, 
with  Him." 

"  Hush — hush,  child.  That  can  never 
be.  Sooner  would  He  fetch  us  to  where 
she  is." 

"  Oh,  no,  that's  quite  impossible,"  said 
Margie,  with  great  decision. 

He  stopped  in  surprise. 

"  You  and  I  aren't  good  enough  to  go  to 
heaven,  papa,"  said  Margie,  lifting  her  inno- 
cent eyes  to  her  father's  face.  She  had  not 
the  remotest  conception  of  having  stated  an. 
unpleasant  fact.  He  walked  on  quietly,  with- 
out reply. 

Presently  he  slackened  his  pace.  "  The 
more  reason  for  her  to  stay  with  us!  "  he  ex- 
claimed. The  child  came  running  up,  shyly, 
conscious  of  something  wrong,  and  pressed 


50  HER  MEMORY. 

into  his  hand  the  lost  bunch  of  her  daisies. 
He  turned  down  to  the  hotels  by  the  oak;  the 
pair  proceeded  side  by  side.  As  he  went,  he 
began  abstractedly  plucking  at  one  of  the 
flowers  in  his  hand.  ''  She  loves  me — Cloves 
me  not — much — little — not  at  all."  Not  at 
all;  not  at  all; — up  yonder,  in  the  silvery-blue 
heaven,  did  she  see  him  throw  the  flowers 
away? 

"  Oh!  papa,"  said  Margie,  aggrieved. 

The  picturesque  bit  of  road  which  winds 
down  from  Clarens  Railway  Station  to  the 
lake  shone  golden  in  the  twilight.  Over  the 
wooden  gables  and  galleries  of  the  vine- 
dressers' houses  hung  masses  of  greenery;  in 
the  white  sun  moved  slow  carts  and  mild-eyed 
oxen;  great  barrels,  overrunning  with  must, 
lay  by  the  roadside,  on  the  carts,  in  the  wide- 
opened  doors  of  the  vat-filled  storehouses. 
The  intoxication  of  new  wine  was  on  all 
things,  dripping  from  the  ladders,  rising  from 


HER  MEMORY.  51 

the  vats  and  splashes,  hanging  on  the  heavy- 
air.  The  hot  faces  of  the  labourers  breathed 
it,  the  little  children  laughed  it,  grape-be- 
decked, running  in  and  out,  with  the  pails 
upon  their  shoulders,  through  the  treUis- 
work,  golden  and  green.  And  the  small 
grapes  of  the  country,  amber,  like  little 
bags  of  sunshine,  seemed  to  have  caught 
the  laugh  of  the  skies  and  of  the  children, 
in  ripples  of  variegated  colour,  the  laugh 
that  played  on  the  plains  and  the  hill- 
sides, and  the  myriad  workers  among  them, 
the  blessing  of  full  measure  pressed  down  and 
running  over,  the  wine  of  universal  rejoicing, 
of  travail  and  plenteous  fertility.  There  was 
gladness  in  the  hearts  of  men,  the  brave  glad- 
ness of  God-sanctioned  effort  triumphant,  the 
glad  knowledge  that  the  Maker  and  the 
worker,  in  wondrous  union  of  labour,  had 
thus  filled  to  overflowing  the  empty  vine  vats 
of  the  wedding  feast.  Heaven  had  kissed 
earth  in  the  heats  of  that  azure  summer — 


52  HER  MEMORY. 

earth,  from  her  swelling  bosom  casting  forth 
the  fires  that  consumed  her,  poured  back  to 
heaven  the  jocund  delirium  of  man. 

The  weight  of  universal  gladness  became 
more  than  Anthony  Stollard  could  bear. 
Early  in  October  he  carried  off  his  little 
daughter  to  Nice. 


CHAPTER  V. 

The  Riviera,  as  everyone  knows,  is  by  no 
means  a  land  of  jollity.  It  is  the  abode  of 
perpetual  diversion,  and  also  of  persistent  dis- 
ease— for  along  its  smiling  shores  crowd 
those  who  know  not  how  to  live,  and  those 
who  know  not  how  to  die.  In  its  palm-en- 
folded palaces  the  man  who  cannot  sleep  for 
dissipation  lies  down  beside  the  man  who  can- 
not sleep  for  pain.  And,  at  night,  the  reveller, 
returning,  crosses,  in  a  by-street,  the  clandes- 
tine cortecre  of  Death. 

In  no  spot  on  earth  does  louder  clang  of 
cymbals  strike  upon  softer  air;  nowhere  may 
Danae  so  shamelessly  bare  her  brazen  bosom, 
or  Midas  so  greedily  gorge  of  the  banquet 
which  crushes  his  soul.  And  nowhere,  surely, 
do  Midas's  ears  show  quite  so  plain. 

53 


54  HER   MEMORY. 

All  the  world  over  the  great  circles  of  dis- 
sipation still  centre,  doubtless,  in  the  doings 
of  the  vicious  few.  These  are  prominent, 
much  chronicled,  coveted  from  afar.  But 
other  wheels  of  life  revolve  around  them, 
wheels  within  wheels  innumerable,  and  each 
man  must  attend  to  his  own.  "  Society  '*  is 
a  sort  of  performance  that  goes  on,  like  the 
puppet-show,  in  front  of  your  honest  work- 
shops and  smithies;  you  pay  your  sixpence,  or 
a  penny,  for  the  pleasure  of  being  present  (in 
print):  and  the  town  is  full  of  honest  artisans 
still.  But  the  little  world  of  this  little  sun- 
dazzled  corner  is  only  "  society,"  there  is 
nothing  under  and  nothing  around  it:  self- 
inflated,  it  revolves  around  itself,  the  con- 
glomerate Supereminence  of  the  nineteenth 
century,  the  shoddiest  and  shadiest  aristoc- 
racy that  ever  the  heavens  laughed  upon — till 
they  fell  in. 

Anthony  Stollard  stood  aside,  watching 
the  flow  of  turgid  amusement.    When  a  man 


HER   MEMORY.  55 

is  melancholy,  amusement  proves  a  remedy 
that  either  kills  or  cures :  in  no  case,  however, 
should  it  be  applied  from  without.  To  the 
onlooker  there  is  always  something  drearily 
senseless  in  the  gambols,  on  a  platform,  of  the 
kid-booted  human  beast.  Vice,  to  be  impres- 
sive, must  smell  of  the  field  and  the  wine- 
press: drunkenness  and  obscenity  may  be,  in 
their  own  terrible  way,  great  deeds  in  the 
great  service  of  too  great  a  master,  but  no- 
body admires  from  a  vantage-point  the  pal- 
liardise  of  patchouli,  'pdte,  and  paint. 

On  the  loud  terrace  of  Monte  Carlo  An- 
thony walked  in  the  full  glory  of  the  declin- 
ing day.  There  was  sunlight  all  about  him — 
sunlight  on  the  broad  stretch  of  embankment, 
with  its  luxuriance  of  flowers  and  verdure; 
sunlight  on  the  gilt  and  gaudy  Casino;  sun- 
light on  the  castle  crag  of  the  Robber  Princes; 
sunlight,  in  wide  sweeps,  across  the  purple 
ocean;  sunlight,  continuously  downpouring, 
upon  the  gold  and  silver-grey  belt  of  encir- 


5^  HER   MEMORY. 

cling  hill-side;  sunlight,  far  stretching  and 
clear,  on  the  endless  curves  of  Mediterranean 
sea-coast;  sunlight,  yellow,  Pactolian,  every- 
where— but  shadow  away  towards  white  Bor- 
dighera,  towards  Italy,  the  land  of  art,  and 
art-love,  and  art-service,  the  beauty  for  which 
no  Napoleons  can  pay. 

He  strolled  to  and  fro  amid  the  balm  and 
the  brilliance:  on  all  sides  rose  a  flutter  of  ele- 
gance, a  vision  of  pale  silks  and  glowing  furs, 
the  chatter  of  Babel,  the  graces  of  Babylon, 
the  blooms,  and  the  snakes,  and  the  appe- 
tites of  Paradise.  He  tried  not  to  listen 
for  the  "  bang "  of  the  pigeon-shooting 
down  below,  whose  inexorable  return  strikes 
the  lover  of  true  sport  like  a  blow — and 
yet  a  blow — and  yet  a  blow — across  the 
face.  He  tried  not  to  remark,  detesting 
superciliousness,  the  obtrusive  fact  that  al- 
most every  male  countenance  which  passed 
him  was  the  countenance  of  a  fool  or  of  a 
knave;  he  tried  not  to  trace,  abhorring  dis- 


HER  MEMORY.  jjr 

courtesy,  in  what  manner  the  marvellous 
women  were  thus  skilfully  manufactured. 
A  pale  Russian  in  passing,  paused  imper- 
ceptibly— for  one  moment  her  passionate 
glance  dwelt  complacently  on  his;  he  turned 
towards  the  ocean  with  a  smile  in  his  eyes. 
Sorrow  is  a  sacred  thing,  and  scorn  a  right- 
eous; but  there's  not  a  heart  of  man  on  earth 
that  doesn't  leap  to  a  woman's  approval. 

He  hung  against  the  parapet,  sick  with 
the  nostalgia  of  enjoyment.  Life  had  been 
kind  to  him  hitherto.  At  her  banquet  are 
dress  seats,  reserved,  velvet-cushioned,  to 
which  some  struggle  upward,  for  which  some 
get  an  order  on  entering.  It  was  not  the 
velvet  cushions  he  cared  about,  never  having 
missed  them;  what  he  wanted  was  the  feast. 

The  sad  resentment  in  his  heart  had  deep- 
ened, as  its  sorrow  calmed  down.  He  was 
angry  with  the  dead  wife  he  still  dearly  loved ; 
he  was  angry  with  God.  He  hated  the  re- 
ligion which  calls  its  best  devotees  away  to 


58  HER   MEMORY. 

the  willing  ecstasies  of  heaven.  "  He  that 
loveth  son  or  daughter  more  than  Me  " — 
twice,  he  remembered,  his  wife  had  quoted 
the  words  to  him — ah,  poor  little  orphan 
Margie!     Ah,  how  he  hated  the  words! 

His  eyes  swept  over  the  tawdry  parakeets 
preening  themselves  on  the  terrace.  If  Mar- 
garet's prayers  remained  unanswered — there 
is  nothing  up  yonder  but  sky. 

''Mr.  Stollard,  of  all  people!"  said  a 
bright  voice  behind  him.  He  turned  to  the 
owner,  a  florid  woman,  brightly  laughing, 
brightly  dressed.  "  You  here  at  Monte  Carlo? 
Only  passing  through,  of  course!  " 

"  I  am  at  Nice,  Lady  Mary.  I  have  been 
there  for  a  week." 

"  At  Nice?  That  is  reassuring.  I  should 
have  put  you  down  to  Cannes.  Cannes,  Men- 
tone,  Nice;  with  you  men  they  are  the  three 
degrees  of  hypocrisy.  They  all  mean  Monte 
Carlo.  Now  I  am  here,  frankly,  at  the  Hotel 
de  Paris." 


HER   MEMORY. 


59 


"  I  assure  you,  I  have  not  the  remotest 
idea " 

"  No,  of  course  not.  The  remotest  idea  is 
Cannes.  And  of  course  Mrs.  Stollard  is  with 
you;  you  are  just  the  sort  of  man  to  come 
here  with  your  wife." 

He  flushed.  "  My  wife  died  three  months 
ago,"  he  said. 

''  Oh,  I'm  so  sorry!  I  had  not  the  slight- 
est— we  have  been  away  in  South  Africa — I 
noticed  your  mourning,  I  made  sure  it  was 
your  mother-in-law!  Forgive  me,  I  beg  of 
you;  you  will  think  me  quite  brutal,  but 
you  know  I'm  not."  Her  voice  dropped 
over  the  last  word,  full  of  meaning;  she  hur- 
ried on.  "  Yes,  we  have  been  to  South 
Africa;  I  thought  it  exceedingly  tiresome, 
but  my  husband  liked  it.  He  says  it's 
Tom  Tiddler's  ground,  without  any  Tom 
Tiddler." 

"  I  hope  Mr.  Hunt  is  well,"  said  Anthony 
stiffly. 


66     .  HER   MEMORY. 

"  Oh,  quite  well,  thanks.  But  he  doesn't 
approve  of  Monte  Carlo.  He  has  the  queer- 
est prejudices  about  making  money.  South 
Africa  he  thinks  all  right." 

"  As  a  money-making  concern,  compared 
with  the  Casino? "  said  Anthony.  "  I  can 
quite  understand  his  view." 

"  Now  that  is  unjust  to  dear  old  Montey. 
You  don't  mind  my  saying  *  Montey,'  do  you? 
I  know  it's  vulgar,  deliciously  vulgar,  but 
there's  no  harm  in  being  vulgar  as  long  as 
you're  aware  of  the  fact.'' 

Anthony  made  no  reply. 

"  Plenty  of  people  win  at  the  tables.  Lady 
Gawtry  won  two  thousand  louis  the  other 
night.  And  Arthur  Coverdale  told  me  he 
had  won  a  lot  last  year.  That  is  so  nice  of 
him,  so  encouraging;  people  never  tell  one 
about  their  winnings.  But  if  you  go  into  the 
rooms  (as  of  course  you  do),  you  can  see  the 
Duchess  piling  up  her  banknotes  night  after 
night." 


HER   MEMORY.  ^j 

"The  Duchess!"  repeated  Anthony 
vaguely. 

"Well,  you  are  a  newcomer!  The  new 
Duchess  of  Dorrisford!  Sam  Hicks's  only 
daughter.  Her  father  made  all  his  money  by 
living  with  a  female  detective  and  keeping  her 
drunk.  She  is  charming;  I'm  exceedingly 
attached  to  her,  but  I  must  say,  though  I 
know  that  it's  mean  of  me,  I  should  like  to  see 
her  lose  a  little  now  and  then." 

"  Surely,  Lady  Mary,  you  can't  want 
money.'* 

"  Thanks.  How  kind  of  you  to  remind 
me.  No,  I  have  money  enough,  thank 
Heaven;  but  that's  no  reason  why  I  should 
want  everybody  else  to  win." 

He  raised  his  hat,  but  she  retained 
him. 

"Don't  go,"  she  said;  "you  can't  know 
a  single  soul  here,  or  you  wouldn't  have  asked 
about  the  Duchess.  There  isn't  a  stupider 
place  than  Monte  Carlo  for  those  who  look 


6^  HER  MEMORY. 

on;  you  must  be  in  the  thick  of  it.  I  want  to 
introduce  you  to  my  daughter,  she  is  com- 
ing towards  us,  that  girl  yonder  in  blue;  I  sent 
her  for  my  daily  Gil  Bias.  My  daughter: 
doesn't  it  sound  absurd,  Anthony?  She  is 
very  nearly  as  old  as  I  am,  you  know.  Eve- 
line, this  is  Mr.  Stollard,  a  very  old  friend  of 
mine,  a  neighbour  in  Oakshire.  Give  me  the 
paper,  dear." 

The  step-daughter  gazed  full  at  this  newl 
old  acquaintance  with  a  gaze  that  said  noth- 
ing. Her  whole  manner,  her  features  and 
complexion,  betokened  pallid  indifference,  a 
little  studied  perhaps — the  indifference  which 
stops  short  of  neglect. 

"  Don't  you  wish  they  wouldn't  shoot  the 
pigeons?  "  she  said. 

Lady  Mary  looked  up  with  an  impatient 
exclamation.  "  One  might  have  known  she 
would  say  that.  I  thought  you  would  have 
grown  wiser,  Eveline,  after  Colonel  Coxe's 
answer  the  other  day.     *  Oh,  I  don't  mind/ 


HER   MEMORY.  63 

said  the  Colonel,  *  so  long  as  they  don't  shoot 
as  many  as  me! '  " 

'*  Tve  got  wiser  about  faces  now,"  said  the 
girl. 

"  Dear  me,  you  are  improving!  That 
is  almost  a  compliment  to  Mr.  Stollard,  as  far 
as  it  goes.  I  tell  Eveline  she  is  morbid  about 
the  tir.  The  pigeons  I  pity  at  Monte  Carlo 
are  the  ones  that  shoot  themselves." 

"  Yes,  two  a  day,"  said  Miss  Hunt,  in  a 
matter-of-fact  tone,  "  from  sixty  to  seventy  a 
month.  But  I  don't  pity  those  one  bit. 
It's  their  own  free  will  to  come  and  play, 
and  they  have  to  bring  their  money  with 
them." 

"  And  leave  it  behind  them,"  said  An- 
thony. 

Lady  Mary  laughed.  "  That  sounds  like 
Bo-peep's  sheep,"  she  said.  "  I  wish  you 
would  take  us  over  to  the  restaurant  and  give 
us  some  tea." 

They  moved  across  the  gravelled  terrace. 


64  HER  MEMORY. 

"  And  I  hope  there  will  be  no  musicians," 
remarked  Eveline. 

"  What  do  you  care,  child?  "  The  step- 
daughter winced.  "  Eveline's  whole  life,  Mr. 
Stollard,  is  spoilt  by  her  noticing  small  dis- 
agreeables. How  did  Count  de  la  Faille  ex- 
press it?    '  Elle  s'appuie  sur  le  cote  facheux.'  " 

"  I  can't  help  listening  when  people  play 
false,"  said  Eveline.  ^ 

"  That's  just  the  difference.  Other  people 
hear,  but  you  listen.  Now,  I  don't  analyse  the 
music,  I  just  Hke  the  cheerful  noise." 

Eveline  shrugged  her  eyebrows,  ever  so 
slightly.  Once  or  twice  she  cast  inquiring 
glances  at  Mr.  Stollard,  whose  countenance 
she  evidently  considered  too  good  for  her 
step-mother's  company.  She  dropped  away 
from  the  others  so  that  she  might  speak  her 
thoughts  aloud,  a  lonely  habit  she  had  got 
into  years  ago.  "  Blessed  are  the  blind,"  she 
said  under  her  breath,  "  and  trebly  blessed 
they  who  only  see  themselves."     Anthony 


HER   MEMORY.  65 

overheard  her.  **  An  unpleasant  girl,"  he 
thought.  For  men  never  like  a  woman  to  feel 
on  her  own  initiative. 

"  Now  what  /  object  to/'  said  Lady  Mary, 
as  she  settled  herself  by  the  little  table  in  the 
road,  "  is  the  invariable  mustiness  of  the 
cakes.  Why,  for  goodness  sake,  can't  they 
stop  baking  three  whole  days  and  then  start 
afresh?  Anthony,  I  wish  you  would  suggest 
that  to  the  head  man  yonder.  It  is  an  excel- 
lent idea!  But  of  course,  like  all  men,  you  are 
afraid  to  interfere.  A  three  days'  strike  in 
the  kitchen  would  set  them  right,  but  I  don't 
approve  of  strikes." 

The  girl  had  looked  up  with  wide-eyed 
astonishment  as  the  stranger's  Christian  name 
escaped  from  her  step-mother's  lips. 

"  Oh,  Mr.  Stollard  and  I  are  such  very  old 
friends,"  said  Lady  Mary.  "  We  used  to  play 
together;  don't  you  remember  our  playing 
together,  Anthony?  " 

"  Yes,  I  remember  your  playing  with  me," 


66  HER   MEMORY. 

replied  Anthony.  "  Lady  Mary,  I  fear  I  must 
be  getting  down  to  the  station." 

A  look  of  positive  annoyance  swept  over 
Lady  Mary's  genial  face.  ''  Oh,  nonsense, 
you  must  dine  with  us  to-night,"  she  said. 
"  Why,  Anthony,  it's  ten  years  since  we  met. 
I'm  not  going  to  let  you  slip  away."  He 
looked  along  his  black  sleeve.  "  True,  you 
must  dress,"  said  Lady  Mary,  ''  but  you've 
plenty  of  time  to  run  over  to  Nice.  Every- 
body does.  I  shall  certainly  expect  you.  I 
have  one  or  two  people  coming,  quite  a  small 
party.     All  people  you  know,  or  ought  to." 

"  You  forget  that  I  am  in  mourning,"  he 
began. 

The  lady  dropped  her  eyeglass.  "When — 
when  did  you  say  it  was?  "  she  asked,  lower- 
ing her  voice  in  a  not  very  successful  effort  at 
sympathy.  "  It  cannot  be  so  very  recent,  An- 
thony, or  I  should  hardly  have  met  you  here." 

"  So  I  fear  you  must  kindly  excuse 
me 


HER   MEMORY.  67 

"  I  tell  you  it  is  quite  a  small  party.  My 
cousins  Croylet,  and  Sir  Arthur  Banks,  and 
Mrs.  T.  P.  Pott.  Don't  be  absurd.  People 
must  dine  whatever  happens;  and  nobody — 
nobody,  I  tell  you,  Anthony — yes,  I  shall 
sometimes  call  you  Anthony,  as  I  always  used 
to  do — nobody  keeps  to  the  old  etiquette 
about  mourning.  You  may  take  my  word 
for  it.  I  am  an  authority  on  the  new  style — 
not  on  the  old,  I  confess.  It's  all  style  now-a- 
days,  not  etiquette.  There's  not  a  Court  in 
Europe  has  any  etiquette  left  to  speak  of. 
Well,  excepting  the  Austrian  and  the  Spanish, 
perhaps.  I've  been  the  round  of  them,  in  a 
Baedekerish  way,  of  course.  And  as  for  man- 
ners, they're  dead  and  gone.  It's  '  manner  ' 
now-a-days  has  taken  their  place.  If  your 
'manner'  is  all  right,  you'll  do.  We  shall 
dine  at  eight.  Till  then,  good-bye!  "  She 
walked  away  quickly,  leaving  no  opportunity 
for  further  refusal. 

In  the  train  Anthony  Stollard  reproached 


68  HER   MEMORY. 

himself  for  doing  a  thing  he  did  not  desire  to 
do.  And  also  for  the  half-heartedness  of  his 
non-desiring.  It  must  be  admitted  that,  after 
three  months  of  unadulterated  Margie,  melan- 
choly, and  Miss  Gray,  he  had  felt  the  repellant 
attraction  of  Monte  Carlo  increasing  upon 
him  at  the  very  moment,  when  whom  should 
he  meet,  of  all  persons,  but  Lady  Mary  Hunt! 
Twelve  years  ago,  when  they  were  little  more 
than  children.  Lady  Mary  and  he  had  found 
unadulterated  pleasure  in  one  another's  so- 
ciety. In  those  days  she  was  Lady  Mary 
Dellys,  one  of  the  too  numerous  daughters  of 
the  Stollards'  noble  but  impoverished  neigh- 
bour, the  Earl  of  Foye.  People  quite  expect- 
ed to  see  them  "  make  a  match  of  it,"  when 
suddenly  her  engagement  was  announced  to 
Mr.  Thomas  Hunt,  of  the  City  firm  of  Hunt, 
Penning  (originally  Pfennig),  Steele  Bros., 
and  Hunt,  Bankers.  Mr.  Hunt's  years,  like 
his  annual  thousands,  were  more  than  half  a 
hundred.    It  was  the  old  squalid  story,  and  all 


HER   MEMORY.  gg 

Lady  Mary's  relations  agreed  with  her  that 
she  had  acted  for  the  best,  and,  on  the  whole, 
was  lucky.  Two  years  later  Anthony,  per- 
fectly heart-whole,  married  a  girl  he  had  loved 
at  first  sight — and  second — and  Lady  Mary, 
perfectly  contented,  sent  him  a  silver  butter- 
dish. 

And  now  this  woman  suddenly  crosses  his 
path  with  her  grown-up  step-daughter  beside 
her.  In  those  early  days  he  had  always  found 
her  delightful  to  talk  to;  a  healthy  element, 
full  of  the  qualities  he  lacked — easy  good  na- 
ture, good  sense.  He  was  fasciriated  now  by 
the  desire  to  compare  her  with  herself;  the 
whole  of  his  married  hfe  lay  between  Lady 
Mary  Dellys  and  Lady  Mary  Hunt. 

He  found  Margie  awaiting  him,  tiresome- 
ly  expectant:  "  I  thought  you  weren't  com- 
ing, papa."  For  every  evening  at  six  o'clock 
he  taught  her,  compelled  to  do  so  by  his 
choice  of  an  utterly  incompetent  governess. 
The  lessons  had  become  a  daily  drag;  to- 


TO  HER  MEMORY. 

night  she  was  specially  inattentive.  He 
closed  the  book  with  indignant  protest  and 
left  her.  A  man's  world,  after  all,  contains  a 
great  deal  more  than  churchyards  and  little 
children.  It  was  with  a  feeling  almost  of 
pleasure  that  he  got  out  his  dress  things 
and  returned  to  Monte  Carlo  in  the  over- 
crowded corridor  train. 

The  Restaurant  des  Princes  was  full  of 
lights  and  lightness;  light  hangings,  light 
dresses,  light  women,  light  laughter.  On  the 
air,  which  alone  was  heavy,  rose  incessantly 
the  music  of  champagne  corks  and  princely 
titles;  two  reigning  monarchs  were  dining  at 
little  tables  in  the  crowd,  comparatively  un- 
noticed this  evening,  because  the  Duchess  di 
Valdemarina  had  with  her  the  latest  Paris 
music-hall  man. 

"  You  shall  sit  in  this  corner,"  said  Lady 
Mary  to  Anthony.  "  You  will  feel  nice  and 
quiet  with  your  back  against  the  wall,  and,  be- 
sides, you  will  have  the  best  view  of  Diane.'' 


HER   MEMORY.  yi 

"And  who  is  Diane?"  asked  Anthony. 
He  had  a  knack  of  saying  awkward  things  in 
a  room  full  of  people,  while  in  dialogue  he 
performed  miracles  of  tact. 

"  The  goddess  of  chastity.  My  dear  Mrs. 
Pott,  may  I  introduce  an  old  friend,  Mr.  Stol- 
lard?  Surely,  Mr.  Stollard,  you  know  my 
cousin,  Lady  Ermyntrude  Croylett?  I  can't 
say  whether  anybody  else  can  endure  tube- 
roses on  a  dinner  table,  but  I  know  that  I 
have  too  little  brains,  or  too  much,  to  support 
them,  so  otez-moi  ces  fleurs,  je  vous  en  prie." 

The  little  company  was  very  gay,  as  are 
all  such  little  companies,  which,  by  a  merciful 
dispensation,  laugh  incessantly  for  want  of 
wit.  While  everyone  reprobated  gambling  as 
a  habit,  the  talk  was  almost  entirely  of  luck 
at  the  tables.  Mrs.  Pott,  a  pretty  American, 
recently  divorced  (by  the  way,  she  is  now  the 
Countess  Crachaska),  had  no  other  aspiration 
in  life  than  to  show  oflf  her  diamonds  among 
people  of  title;  Lady  Ermyntrude  Croylett, 


72  HER  MEMORY. 

quite  content  with  being  Lady  Ermyntrude, 
had  no  aspiration  at  all.  Anthony  sat  be- 
tween Mrs.  Pott  and  the  hostess;  the  latter 
was  resolved  he  should  thoroughly  enjoy  him- 
self, and  not  only  that  night. 

"  You  make  a  mistake,"  she  said.  "  Do, 
pray,  permit  me  to  say  what  I  want  to.  I 
think  you  have  been  making  it  all  these  years. 
No  man  should  balance  his  whole  life  on  a 
pin-point,  no,  not  though  that  point  be  the 
purest  of  diamonds.  Oh,  I  daresay  my  meta- 
phors are  mixed;  I  don't  pretend  to  be  a 
talker.  What  I  mean  is — and  I  know  about 
the  world,  and  making  one's  self  comfortable 
in  it:  have  plenty  of  foundations!  Some- 
thing's always  coming  down  in  some  corner. 
Now  I — oh,  my  dear  Mrs.  Pott,  I  could 
not  think  of  your  declining  that  lobster- 
soumkl " 

"  Well,"  she  said,  as  they  rose  from  table, 
"  have  you  enjoyed  my  little  dinner?  "  He 
could  honestly  answer  "  Yes."    He  had  seen 


HER   MEMORY.  73 

little  in  his  life  of  that  brightness,  and  pretti- 
ness,  and  flashy  merriment  which  pass  so  well 
for  happiness.  Even  when  abroad  with  his 
wife,  or,  more  rarely,  in  London,  he  had  lived 
secluded  in  his  own  affections.  ''  His  brother 
is  Sir  Henry,  you  know,"  said  Lady  Mary  to 
Mrs.  T.  P.  Pott.  "  He  has  recently  lost  his 
wife.  During  ten  years  he  has  lived  with  her, 
and  loved  her,  and  painted  pictures  she  ad- 
mired." 

The  company  separated  on  its  way  to  the 
Casino;  acquaintances  don't  want  to  see  each 
other's  play. 

"  You  do  not  seriously  mean  to  say  that 
you  have  never  been  in  the  rooms?  "  asked 
Lady  Mary,  pausing  before  the  pompously 
guarded  door.  "  Do  you  know,  Anthony,  it's 
a  good  thing  that  matters  went  as  they  did. 
You  and  I  would  never  have  got  on  to- 
gether." 

"  I  have  been  in  the  rooms — the  atmos- 
phere is  stifling.    I  have  never  gambled." 


74  HER   MEMORY. 

"  Worse  still !  You  are  like  your  name- 
sake. I  can  forgive  a  man  for  avoiding  temp- 
tation, but  not  for  resisting  it.  The  one  may 
be  angelic,  but  the  other  is  unhuman." 

He  smiled  irritably.  "  You  enjoy  the 
good  things  of  life,"  he  said. 

She  burst  out  laughing. 

"  It  is  the  bad  things  I  enjoy,"  she  replied, 
passing  in.  "  Oh,  I  know  I  am  shocking 
you,  but  I  don't  do  it  on  purpose.  At  least, 
I  mean,  I  trust  I  am  doing  it  in  kindness.  I 
pity  you,"  and  now  her  voice  was  really 
grown  gentle;  "good-bye  for  the  present. 
The  bald  man  over  there  is  my  favourite 
croupier.  I  always  begin  with  a  little  rou- 
lette." 

He  found  himself  in  the  middle  of  the 
crowded  rooms,  surrounded  by  that  hot 
stench  and  stuffy  dazzle  which  everybody 
knows.  Here  and  there  among  the  dull  gild- 
ing the  tables  made  islands  of  yellow  glare, 
with  the  eager  faces  massed  around  them,  the 


HER   MEMORY.  75 

low  summons  of  the  officials,  the  click,  click 
of  the  ball.  He  edged  into  a  circle,  mechani- 
cally assuming  that  air  of  indifference  which 
everyone,  except  an  occasional  plunger, 
wears  visibly  put  on,  like  paint. 

At  the  moment  of  his  entrance  nobody 
was  playing  for  more  than  money,  nor  for 
much  of  that,  as  money  counts  at  Monte 
Carlo;  the  large  sprinkling  of  spectators — the 
good  people,  tourists — were  getting  impa- 
tient for  their  expected  sensation,  which  so 
rarely  comes.  The  croupiers  leant  back 
yawning,  insisting,  "  Faites  votre  jeu,  mes- 
sieurs, faites  votre  jeu!  " 

"  Oh,  let's  go  to  one  of  the  other  tables," 
said  a  prim  person  at  Anthony's  shoulder. 
"  Jim  says  the  Trawnteycawrant  is  best;  he 
was  here  last  year  with  Suzan."  As  they 
moved  off  he  caught  her  prim  companion's 
reply:  ^' How  awful  it  would  be" — with  in- 
finite relish — "  if  somebody  shot  themselves 
while  we  were  here;  the  Society  Report  says 


je 


HER   MEMORY. 


they  constantly  do!  "  "  Le  jeu  est  fait,"  said 
a  weary  voice,  under  Anthony.  In  sudden 
silence  the  little  ball  went  whizzing  round. 

He,  too,  wandered  away  to  the  farther 
rooms  where  everything  is  so  much  more  re- 
poseful, and  where  the  quiet  gold  looks  so 
harmless  on  the  smooth  expanse  of  green. 
He  found  the  curious  crowd  collected  round 
the  cool  Duchess  of  Dorrisford;  he  saw  Mrs. 
Pott  take  the  seat  which  her  maid  had  re- 
tained for  her.  A  man  with  a  head  like  a 
bull's  was  risking  thousands  indifferently; 
somebody  mentioned  his — South  African — 
name.  "  The  devil  won't  let  him  lose,"  said 
one  of  his  friends. 

Anthony  drifted  from  one  room  to  an- 
other, a  very  doubtful  form  of  diversion;  ulti- 
mately he  returned  to  the  roulette  he  had 
started  from.  Trade  had  looked  up;  Zero 
had  come  out  twice  running;  three  rows  of 
faces  had  thickened  round  the  chairs.  The 
same  types  were  here  present  as  all  over  the 


HER   MEMORY.  77 

tawdry  palace,  evil  types  of  men,  and  many 
foolish — the  foolish  ones  faultlessly  groomed 
— and  terrible  old  women  in  diamond-be- 
sprinkled satins,  and  plenty  of  fresh-looking, 
lightly-clothed  girls.  Presently  Anthony  put 
down  a  live-franc  piece  on  a  colour,  inevitably 
— the  other  colour  came  up,  and  he  saw  the 
coin  swept  away.  As  he  bent  forward  to  place 
his  money,  he  observed  the  look  of  an  old 
man  standing  in  front  of  him,  just  the  kind  of 
haggard  yearning  one  expects  to  find  at  the 
tables,  and  never  does  see  at  first,  and  always 
sees  the  next  moment — the  man  was  not  play- 
ing, but  carefully  watching  the  game.  An- 
thony held  out  a  couple  more  silver  pieces; 
unable  to  reach  far  enough,  he  asked  the 
other,  who  was  carefully  looking  away,  to 
place  them. 

"  You  will  watch  your  money  yourself,  if 
you  please,"  said  the  man,  as  he  ungraciously 
complied.  "  Here,  at  Monte  Carlo,  you 
know "  and  he  shrugged  his  lean  shoul- 


78  HER   MEMORY. 

ders.  Anthony,  with  a  jerk  of  his  wrist,  flung 
a  louis  on  ''  impasse."  At  that  moment  the 
table  was  heavily  laden.  At  the  call  of  "  14," 
the  two  silver  coins  disappeared  from  the 
black,  but  two  gold  pieces  lay,  immovable,  in 
front  of  the  beginner.  He  let  them  lie:  a 
moment  later  there  were  four;  he  let  them  lie. 
"  Faites  votre  jeu,  messieurs!  "  ^  Rien  ne  va 
plus!  "  The  number  9  was  called;  four  fresh 
gold-pieces  came  clinking  down  on  the  other 
four.  He  could  not  stretch  out  his  arm  to 
take  up  the  money.  He  hesitated;  a  moment 
later,  in  the  general  scramble,  a  croupier  had 
dexterously  whisked  the  neglected  "  or- 
phans "  away. 

"  Pardon,  what  are  you  doing  with  my 
stake,"  said  a  harsh  voice,  directly  in  front  of 
Anthony.  The  latter  started;  it  was  the  hag- 
gard old  Frenchman  speaking,  and  his  words 
were  imperiously  addressed  to  the  croupier. 
"  Your  stake?  "  repeated  the  ofBcial,  facing 
right  round,  in  supremest  scorn.     The  usual 


HER   MEMORY.  ^q 

brief  altercation  immediately  ensued,  fierce  on 
the  one  side,  firm  on  the  other.  Suddenly 
Anthony  interposed:  "  The  money  belongs  to 
this  gentleman,"  he  said  in  Anglo-French,  '*  I 
witness  that  it  belongs  to  this  gentleman." 
The  whole  table  was  watching  with  concen- 
trated interest,  eager  for  the  defeat  of  the 
croupier.  "  Oh,  if  the  gentleman  saw  him 
put  down  the  stake,"  said  the  latter,  with  tem- 
per, and  imm.ediately  paid  the  three  hundred 
and  twenty  francs  into  the  Frenchman's  dingy 
hand,  for  he  was  aware  that  the  money  had 
been  gained  by  some  person  who  did  not 
claim  it,  and  the  bank  cannot  afford — nor 
does  it  require — to  be  difficult.  Above  all 
must  it  avoid  investigation  or  inquiry  of  any 
kind.  Anthony  drew  a  long  breath;  he 
stopped  playing,  and  watched  half-a-dozen  of 
the  napoleons — his  napoleons — disappear, 
one  by  one,  from  the  old  man's  hand,  in  full 
on  the  3,  Then,  actually,  the  number  came 
up;  without  any  expresison  on  his  cadaver- 


8o  HER  MEMORY. 

ous  countenance  the  croupier  paid  seven 
banknotes  of  a  hundred  francs  into  the  claws 
outstretched  behind  him.  Immediately  the 
old  man  left  the  table,  and  Anthony  also 
lounged  away.  The  official's  eyes  followed 
the  pair;  he  had  thought  himself  acquainted 
with  every  trick  of  the  game. 

The  old  rogue,  looking  roun4,  met  the 
neophyte's  convicting  glance.  He  turned 
back  to  him  at  once.  "  Monsieur,"  he  said 
recklessly,  "  you  have  saved  me.  The  money 
was  yours.  Why  did  you  give  it  me?  I  know 
not,  unless  it  be  of  your  nature  to  do  beauti- 
ful things Stay!  " — for  he  misread  the 

other's  expression  of  disgust — "  I  understand. 
You  saw  that  to  support  me  was  your  unique 
chance  of  recovering  it "  (that,  indeed,  had 
been  the  man's  natural  explanation  from  the 
first);  ''but,  Monsieur,  you  are  a  stranger 
here,  you  would  never  have  secured  it.  I  saw 
your  dilemma.  I  came  to  your  assistance. 
These  rascally  croupiers!  they  all  cheat!     I 


HER   MEMORY.  gi 

know  them  well.  Ah,  the  public  imagine 
there  can  be  no  cheating,  the  fools!  But  a 
hundred  francs — what  say  you?  You  see  I 
am  open-handed.  I  will  sacrifice  one  hundred 
francs." 

*'  Keep  the  money,"  answered  Anthony. 
**  But  tell  me;  what  made  you  win  that  3?  " 

"  What  made  me  win?  Ah,  a  merciful 
Providence!  Or  perhaps  the  croupier  was 
not  attending  to  the  stakes.  Besides,  occa- 
sionally they  must  allow  a  number  to  come  up 
*  en  plein.'  Though  not  for  me,  I  should 
say — not  for  me!  Monsieur,  I  have  lost  mil- 
lions at  Monte  Carlo;  inalterably,  now,  I  play 
the  number  3.  It  is  the  number  of  the  Blessed 
Trinity.  And  you  see  how,  when  again  I  was 
starving,  again  it  has  wondrously  assisted 
me." 

Anthony  recoiled;  as  he  did  so,  a  young 
woman  passed  by  them,  in  crimson  and  emer- 
alds, leaning  against  a  white-haired  dandy 
with  exhausted  eyes.    "  Five  louis  more,  mon 


82  HER   MEMORY. 

petit  chou,"  the  woman  was  saying;  "  only 
live  louis  more!  The  luck  must  turn  at  last!  " 
Anthony  walked  straight  out  into  the  bril- 
liant vestibule.  It  was  airy,  roomy,  cheerful 
with  colour  and  movement.  From  the  corner 
of  a  sofa  Eveline  Hunt  came  towards  him, 
pale,  rather  interesting,  in  her  pale  evening 
frock. 

"  Could  you  get  my  cloak?  "  she  asked 
abruptly.  "  Lady  Mary  has  the  number:  it  is 
1 1 02;  I  daresay  they  will  let  you  have  it.  If 
not,  I  shall  just  go  without.  I  can  wait  here 
no  longer."  As  he  followed  her,  she  turned 
upon  him.  "  How  can  you  come  to  this  hor- 
rible place?  "  she  exclaimed.  "  You  have  no 
right  to — you!"  and,  before  his  look  of  amaze- 
ment, "  Lovely?  It  is  loathsome.  Sometimes 
I  fancy  I  see  the  inside  of  things  Hke — what  do 
they  call  him? — Rontgen?  I'm  not  as  good 
as  many  people — oh,  I've  not  the  most  distant 
desire  to  be  good;  all  the  worst  of  my  ac- 
quaintances are   '  good  ' — but   I   can't  stand 


HER   MEMORY.  g^ 

this!  Just  look  at  the  faces  streaming  out — 
only  look  at  them!  Look  at  those  who  have 
won;  their  expressions  are  still  more  disgust- 
ing than  those  of  the  many  who've  lost.  And 
the  poisonous  atmosphere  we  spend  half  our 
day  in,  we,  the  Sybarite  seekers  after  health! 
The  management  knows  better  than  to  pro- 
vide fresh  air  for  hot  heads!  I've  been  in 
there  for  hours,  watching  the  play.  Lady 
Mary  imagines  the  zero  accounts  for  the  mil- 
lions of  profits,  year  after  year!  She  won't 
— but  it's  no  use  talking.  I  don't  pity  the 
poor  fools  who  blow  out  the  brains  they 
haven't  got.  I  pity — don't  mind  me,  please, 
Mr.  Stollard.  I  always  say  and  do  the  wrong 
thing;  but  that,  in  the  world  I  live  in,  must 
surely  be  a  sort  of  virtue.  Yes,  that  is  the 
cloak;  you  see,  the  man  knows  me.  I  can't 
imagine  what  made  me  burst  out;  I  suppose 
it's  a  sort  of  compliment.  Please  tell  mamma 
I  had  a  headache.  It's  quite  true.  Good- 
night." 


84  HER   MEMORY. 

"  Let  me  see  you  to  the  hotel,"  he  sug- 
gested. 

"  Oh,  no,  thanks.  It's  just  over  the  way. 
As  a  favour,  please  not."  She  escaped  from 
him,  a  white  flutter  among  the  greenery  and 
the  lights. 

"  A  girl  who  might  come  right,  and  who 
may  go  wrong,"  he  said  to  himself,  philo- 
sophically. '*  Probably,  like  most  women  of 
the  set  she  is  in,  she  will  do  neither."  He 
went  back,  and  found  Lady  Mary,  to  whom 
he  gave  her  step-daughter's  message.  Her 
Ladyship  shrugged  her  comfortable  shoul- 
ders. "  Eveline  is  so  foolishly  clever,"  she 
said,  "  and  that  is  unluckily  a  combination  I 
have  little  sympathy  with.  But,  honestly,  it 
is  rather  in  your  way,  you  know;  I  mean  peo- 
ple with  more  brains  than  they  quite  know 
how  to  use.  Some  people  spoil  everything  by 
thinking  about  it.  I  myself  have  never  seen 
brains  succeed  in  the  world.  Adaptability,  is 
not  that  the  word?    Have  you  had  good  luck? 


HER   MEMORY.  $5 

Oh,  of  course  you've  played;  people  always 
do.  I  won  three  times  running  on  *  couleur 
gagne';  I'm  going  now.  Take  me  back  to 
the  hotel.  You've  any  number  of  trains.  But 
you'd  much  better  come  and  stay  here.  You 
would  have  a  splendid  time;  I  should  see  to 
that.  And  I  should  like  to  be  good  to  your 
poor  little  girl.  What  a  beautiful  moonlit 
night!  Give  me  your  arm,  Anthony,  and  let 
us  walk  up  and  down  for  a  moment,  among 
all  the  gaslamps." 

He  did  as  she  bade  him,  but  perhaps  she 
felt  the  reserve  in  his  hold. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  want  to  revive  any  dead  and 
gone  flirtations,"  she  said;  "  I'm  afraid  I've 
had  too  many  since  then.  But  I  always  liked 
you,  and  I'm  sorry  for  you,  and  I  want  to  give 
you  a  bit  of  advice,  unasked.  Of  course 
you're  miserable;  anyone  can  see  that  in  your 
face — which  Eveline  approved  of.  And  of 
course  one  can  understand  your  being  miser- 
able, after  your  terrible  loss.     But  mark  my 


86  HER   MEMORY. 

words,  you're  just  the  man  to  mix  up  misery 
and  enjoyment  till  you  don't  know  which  is 
which.  It's  the  greatest  mistake  a  human  be- 
ing can  make;  they're  both  good  enough,  and 
right  enough,  if  only  you  keep  them  apart. 
Once  mix  them  up,  and  misery  is  bound  to 
swallow  up  everything  else.  It's  like  wine  in 
water  to  some  people,  or  the  lean  kine  in 
Genesis,  or — dear  me,  that's  a  very  striking 
pelisse!  " 

"  Don't  interrupt  me: — as  I  was  saying, 
stop  enjoying  your  sorrow  at  once.  Come 
here  to  Monte  Carlo;  you  shall  have  your 
mornings  to  yourself  and  the  mountains;  and 
your  evenings  you  can  dedicate  to  us  and  the 
*  tapis  vert.'  Then,  later  on,  you  must  come 
up  to  London  and  see  people.  I  really  do  feel 
for  you;  you  know  I've  got  a  heart  of  a  kind. 
But  no  reasonable  man's  life  is  only  a  love- 
story.  '  And  the  heart  of  Edward  Gray '  is 
rubbish,  really.  It's  absurd,  your  not  know- 
ing people.    Besides,  you  can  meet  artists  and 


HER   MEMORY.  g^ 

cranks  enough  in  London,  if  you  like — I'm 
sure  Eveline  does;  in  any  circumstances  you 
would  ultimately  have  tired  of  Thurdles.  I 
don't  want  to  be  impertinent,  but,  believe 
me,  when  people  have  made  a  mess  of  their 
lives,  they  always  find  it  out,  and  always 
as  a  big  surprise,  and  always  too  late. 
Besides — frankly — ^you  owe  it  to  your  daugh- 
ter. There,  I  shall  not  say  a  word  more 
about  thaty  but  just  leave  you  to  think  it 
out. 

"  What?  "  he  asked,  with  the  irritation  of 
a  clever  man  who  knows  he  is  saying  some- 
thing stupid.  *'  Would  you  want  me  already 
to  find  suitors  for  Margie?  " 

"  Look  at  your  brother,"  she  continued, 
"  he  understands  life,  as  I  take  it.  He  is  mak- 
ing a  splendid  career  for  himself  in  the  House. 
If  he  live  long  enough,  he  will  die  Lord  Sta- 
well." 

He  laughed,  half  amused,  half  annoyed, 
for  none  of  us  like  to  see  our  brother's  sue- 


88  HER   MEMORY. 

cesses  confronted  with  our  failures — and  she 
knew  it. 

"  Is  it  really  Lady  Mary  Dellys  speaking/' 
he  said — '*  the  daughter  of  a  dozen  earls?  " 

She  flushed  angrily.  "  Of  two  dozen,"  she 
answered;  "  I  suppose  there  was  a  first 
Chevalier  du  Lys,  was  there  not?  Shall  we 
walk  towards  the  hotel?  You  needn't  talk  as 
if  Sir  Henry  were  a  cheesemonger,  like  poor 
Thomas's  alderman  grandpapa,  of  whom  he 
once  used  to  be  so  proud.  I  take  life  as  I 
find  it,  a  rough  diamond;  it  wants  a  good  deal 
of  glitter  to  improve  it.  I  have  made  Thomas 
a  good  wife  on  the  whole;  in  marrying  him  I 
did  my  duty  to — to  everybody.  Of  course 
he  has  oceans  of  money,  the  one  thing  you 
really  need  nowadays.  Eveline,  who  probes 
most  things,  could  tell  you  that." 

"  Surely  Miss  Hunt  doesn't  care  about 
money?  " 

"  Of  course  not.  She  '  despises  '  it.  She 
is  compelled,  however,  to  notice  that  some 


HER  MEMORY.  g^ 

men  take  a  different  view.  She  will  have 
£5000  a  year  at  her  marriage,  and  who  knows 
how  much  in  the  end?  She  is  one  of  the  big- 
gest heiresses,  and,  really,  my  greatest  anxiety 
is,  Anthony,  that — some  day — she  should 
marry  an  honourable,  disinterested  man,  a 
man  who  would  understand  and  direct  her 
many  noble  aspirations  and — and  enjoy  her 
peculiarities."  Lady  Mary  paused  on  the 
hotel  steps.  "  She  can't  marry  one  of  our  so- 
ciety-idiots. Or  one  of  the  people  here — the 
barons  who  steal  your  pocket-book  at  a  party, 
or  the  princes  who  are  wanted  by  everyone, 
including  the  police.  Do  you  know,  the  dear 
Duchess  played  against  the  table  to-night, 
and  was  rather  unlucky!  Now  good-bye  till 
to-morrow,  and  remember  what  I  said!  " 

He  had  hardly  taken  a  few  steps,  when  she 
recalled  him:  "  Do  you  know,  I  quite  forgot! 
Colonel  Coxe  tells  me  the  Prince  is  coming 
after  all,  for  the  carnival!  He  is  quite  sure 
they  can  manage  it.     So  we  shall  all  be  so 


go  HER   MEMORY, 

gay;  you  will  have  a  magnificent  time!  "  He 
murmured  some  acknowledgment.  "  Is  that 
all? "  she  exclaimed  pettishly.  "  No,  deci- 
dedly, you  and  I  would  never  have  done  for 
each  other!  " 

He  wound  down  along  the  broad  sweep  to 
the  station  steps,  amid  the  soft  shrubberies 
and  the  moonlight.  Crowds  of  people  were 
leaving  the  gambling-rooms,  all  elegant,  a 
trifle  noisy,  in  a  rustle  of  silks.  With  some 
difficulty  he  found  a  seat  in  the  train,  and  had 
to  abandon  it  at  once  to  a  lady.  He  took  his 
stand,  amongst  others,  in  the  long  gangway, 
looking  out  to  the  splendid  curves  of  illu- 
mined Mediterranean  as  the  slow  line  of  over- 
filled cars  crept  away  along  the  coast.  He 
barely  heard  snatches  of  talk  about  losing 
and  winning;  he  barely  noticed  the  diversity 
of  attitudes,  apathetic  or  truculent.  Beside 
him,  in  the  half-light,  a  little  man  pulled  out  a 
cigar-case,  gold,  with  a  coronet  in  diamonds, 
and,  replacing  it  in  an  inner  pocket,  began 


HER   MEMORY.  g^ 

cautiously  buttoning  his  coat.  Anthony,  ob- 
serving the  movement,  edged  away  with  a 
smile. 

Yes,  he  loathed  the  place.  Whatever 
might  be  the  exaggeration  of  her  manner, 
Eveline  Hunt  was  right  in  her  verdict.  The 
whole  thing  was  hideous,  most  loathable,  in 
its  beautiful,  blood-sodden  attractions;  loath- 
able  in  the  people  who  worked  it,  and  the  peo- 
ple who  came.  Most  of  all,  in  the  people  who 
came.  Why,  the  "  people  who  came  "  formed 
the  whole  of  cosmopolitan  "  society.''  Lady 
Mary  had  truly  informed  him  that  everyone 
who  is  anyone  was  here.  It  was  the  world 
which  had  pleased  him  for  a  moment  that 
evening,  the  world  Lady  Mary  had  praised, 
while  she  scorned  it — the  life  she  had  advised 
as  a  refuge  against  sorrow!  Oh,  sweet,  oh, 
sacred  sorrow!  Oh,  sweet,  pure  memory — 
on  which  each  word  of  Lady  Mary  Hunt  fell 
like  a  stain! 

It  was  not  till  he  had  nearly  reached  his 


92  HER   MEMORY. 

hotel  on  the  Promenade  des  Anglais  that  he 
suddenly  realised,  or  fancied  he  realised,  the 
full  meaning  of  Lady  Mary's  allusions  to  her 
plans  for  her  step-daughter.  The  suggestion 
struck  him  crimson  with  indignation,  again 
and  again.  He  crossed  over  from  the  shiny 
waterside  to  the  shadow  of  the  houses.  In  his 
present  revulsion  the  very  thought  was  an  in- 
sult. Poor  Lady  Mary,  whose  only  aspiration 
was  always  to  be  comfortable  and  kind! 

He  sank  on  his  knees  by  the  child's  bed, 
and  caught  her  little  face  to  his  lips,  and 
kissed  it  with  abundance  of  kisses.  She 
awoke,  crying  out  in  the  dark,  with  mingled 
satisfaction  and  fear,  "  Mamma!  " 

As  that  word  fell — a  revelation — on  his 
soul,  the  widower,  for  the  first  time  in  all  the 
long,  desolate  months,  burst  into  tears.  The 
child  leant  up  against  him,  weeping  also. 
"  Don't,  papa,"  she  sobbed;  "  I  will  be  atten- 
tive. I  wanted  to  tell  you,  I  will  be  attentive. 
Don't,  papa,  don't!" 


HER   MEMORY.  93 

"  Hush,"  he  said,  mastering  himself. 
''Hush,  dear,  hush!" 

And  they  kissed  each  other,  now  slowly, 
caressingly,  in  that  dark  corner,  in  the  shadow 
of  the  night-lamp. 

"  Margie,"  he  whispered  presently,  "  what 
made  you  cry  out  like  that?  Do  you  think  of 
mamma  still,  Margie?  Do  you  sometimes 
want  her  back?  " 

"Think  of  her!"  repeated  the  child,  in- 
dignantly, troubled,  catching  at  that  one  idea. 
And  again  she  began  to  cry,  more  vehemently, 
with  anger  in  her  tears. 

"  Hush,  little  one,  hush!  We  will  think  of 
her  together,  Margie.  "  We  will  want  her 
back  together."  He  rose  to  his  feet.  "  But 
she  won't  come!  " 

He  soothed  her,  saw  her  fall  asleep  again 
with  the  drops  on  her  lashes,  bent  softly  to 
remove  them,  and  left  her  in  peace.  He  had 
always  imagined  that  "  a  child  would  forget 
what  you  wished  it  to  ";  that  "  out  of  sight, 


Q4  HER   MEMORY. 

out  of  mind,  was  the  rule  with  a  child."  Now, 
carried  to  the  other  extreme,  he  unconscious- 
ly measured  Margie's  regrets  by  his  own,  and 
he  reproached  himself  for  his  futile  endeavour 
to  rob  the  child  of  a  treasure  legitimately  as 
much  hers  as  her  father'-s.  *'  I  have  acted 
towards  Margie,"  he  reflected,  ^'  as  Lady 
Mary  would  act  towards  me." 

He  stood  at  his  bedroom  window,  look- 
ing out  on  the  sleeping  Gomorrah;  all  his 
thoughts  were  of  the  woman  in  heaven,  his 
child,  and  his  art-work;  love,  sweetness,  sad 
serenity,  and  far-away  light. 

Next  morning,  he  wrote  to  Lady  Mary 
that  he  was  leaving  Nice  for  good. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

Crossing  into  Italy  from  the  Riviera  is 
like  coming  out  of  a  music-hall  into  the  star- 
lit night. 

For  the  moment,  in  his  change  of  mood, 
the  painter  asked  nothing  of  life  but  that  it 
should  let  him  alone.  The  oarsman  who  has 
shot  the  rapids  may  justly  claim  to  rest  upon 
his  oars.  And  gradually  there  sank  around 
him  that  appeasement  which  emanates  from 
splendid  and  dignified  decay.  For,  if  there  be 
a  witness  on  earth  that  death  is  beautiful,  be- 
cause manifestly  living,  as  all  death  surely 
must  be,  it  is  Italy,  the  heir  of  the  ages,  the 
child  of  the  gods.  And,  if  the  chronicles  of 
human  virtue  glow  with  the  wonder  of  dead 

saints  whose  touch  can  raise  the  dead,  the  his- 

95 


96  HER   MEMORY. 

tory  of  human  inspiration  tells  of  a  sleeping 
mother  from  whose  paps  all  the  children  of 
man  have  drawn  fire.  A  newjiorizon  spread 
clear  before  the  traveller;  a  pure  air  enfolded 
him  on  every  side.  From  one  stronghold  of 
hidden  beauties  he  passed  to  another;  in 
places  unsought  by  the  tourist  he  lingered 
entranced.  He  himself  did  not  realise  how  his 
sorrow  grew  tranquil  in  this  daily  enjoyment 
of  the  purest  and  noblest  sensations  our  world 
can  bestow,  nor  did  he  fully  understand  that 
again  there  had  come  to  him  a  calm  pleasure 
in  living,  from  the  very  heart  of  this  art-lov- 
ing people — a  people,  remote  from  our  cult  of 
vulgarity,  whose  desires,  be  they  virtuous  or 
vicious,  are  set  upon  fairer  possessions  than 
the  pig-prizes  of  our  greasy  scramble  up  the 
pole!  But  once  more  he  amply  developed  an 
early  conviction  that,  whatever  men  may 
babble  about  modern  education,  two  influ- 
ences, incomparable  and  consistent,  confer  on 
the  human  mind  a  freemasonry  of  refinement 


HER   MEMORY.  ^j 

— the  study  of  the  classics,  and  the  apprecia- 
tion of  Italy. 

And  the  love  of  his  art  awoke  and  cried 
out.  He  stopped  buzzing  from  one  flower  to 
another,  and  settled  down  in  a  Florentine 
villa  on  the  Viale  dei  Colli,  the  house  of  an 
English  lady,  who  most  willingly  acceded  to 
his  proposal  that  he,  his  child  and  the  gov- 
erness, should  be  her  only  guests.  Here  he 
lived,  working  hard,  learning  to  paint,  with 
a  heart  become,  in  all  this  matter  of  picture- 
making,  Hke  that  of  a  little  child.  Of  course, 
he  had  visited  Italy  before  his  marriage;  he 
had  toured  it;  he  had  seen  it.  He  had  seen 
nothing.    The  scales  were  fallen  from  his  eyes. 

With  his  small  daughter  he  entered  into 
close  companionship,  and  in  their  daily  walks 
he  taught  and  learnt.  Between  them  the 
dead  wife  and  mother  had  become  a  living 
bond.  From  the  moment  when  that  fictitious 
silence  of  his  careful  building  had  been  broken 
down — when  the  father  had  seen  the  futility 


gS  HER   MEMORY. 

of  his  effort  to  make  all  things  new — from 
that  moment,  the  love  which  was  not  dead 
resumed  its  rightful  position,  the  living,  lov- 
ing memory  arose  in  the  sanctuary  crowned 
with  living  flowers.  Anthony  now  spoke 
often  to  the  child  of  her  mother,  spoke  of  that 
mother's  example,  her  habits,  her  endeavours, 
her  tastes.  It  became  a  rule  of  little  Mar- 
garet's life,  even  more  than  her  father  real- 
ised, to  do  things  because  mother  had  done 
them,  in  the  way  mother  would  have  done 
them,  as  far  as  possible.  She  knew  a  great 
deal  about  mother  now  from  her  father's  con- 
stant references.  She  liked  to  hear  about  her, 
to  put  questions,  and  ponder  replies,  in  their 
long  summer  rambles,  in  their  winter  chats 
beside  the  blazing  logs,  grown  less  senti- 
mental now  in  more  natural  expansion,  in  the 
natural  conception  of  a  memory  which  was 
no  longer  a  dream. 

Nobody  who  knows  anything  of  human- 


HER   MEMORY.  99 

ity  will  believe  that  Mrs.  Fosby  approved  of 
the  turn  things  had  taken.  She  possibly 
might  never  have  exactly  "  approved,"  but 
she  certainly  could  have  been  content  with 
less  cause  for  reprobation.  She  wrote  An- 
thony urgent,  repeated  appeals.  The  closed 
mansion  was  going  to  rack  and  ruin  (though 
she  aired  it  as  constantly  as  her  grievances). 
Sir  Henry  Stollard  was  having  a  brilliant  (and 
most  useful)  career,  and  the  county  was  dis- 
appointed in  Anthony.  The  "  county  "  was 
Mrs.  Fosby's  divine  oracle  in  all  things,  but  it 
must  be  admitted  that  Mrs.  Fosby  herself 
often  figured  as  the  oracle's  self-constituted 
voice.  The  education  dear  Margaret  was  re- 
ceiving was  not  such  as  poor  dear  Margaret 
(these  confusions  are  inevitable  in  our  fam- 
ily, etc.)  would  have  wished.  Mrs.  Fosby  was 
an  authority  on  all  poor  dear  Margaret's  likes 
and  disHkes.  No  greater  testimony  could  be 
adduced  to  the  dead  woman's  tact  and  ten- 
derness than  is  implied  in  the  fact  that  she 


100  HER   MEMORY. 

had  left  this  impression  behind  her.  The  im- 
pression was  not  Anthony's,  but  then  An- 
thony had  never  understood  his  wife. 

Anthony,  as  Mrs.  Fosby  put  it  in  the  inti- 
mate silence  of  her  own  little  sitting-room, 
"  had  been  offended  with  his  wife  for  dying." 
Could  anything  be  more  monstrous?  Oh,  of 
course,  he  had  never  so  expressed  it  to  any- 
one, but  he  had  run  out  of  the  house  and  the 
country,  refusing  to  bury  the  poor  innocent 
thing.     "  Why,  my  dear,  I  call  it  pique." 

In  Anthony's  heart  there  had,  indeed, 
arisen,  as  we  have  seen,  a  tender  resentment 
against  all  he  most  deeply  loved  and  rever- 
enced, an  emotion  too  delicate  for  any  Mrs. 
Fosby  to  appreciate,  but  which  that  good  lady 
unwittingly  helped  him  to  overcome. 

It  w^as  she  who,  rummaging  in  drawers 
which  Anthony  fondly  believed  to  be  locked 
to  all  others  as  they  had  ever  been  to  himself, 
came  upon  an  envelope  bearing  the  inscrip- 
tion, "  For  my  husband,  when  I  am  dead." 


HER   MEMORY.  jqi 

This  she  forwarded  to  the  Riviera,  and  it  fol- 
lowed the  widower  to  Genoa,  where  he 
opened  it,  one  silver  evening,  in  his  still  hotel 
room,  above  the  white  sweep  of  the  port. 

"  My  dear,  dear  Husband,"  wrote  Mar- 
garet,— "  When  you  receive  this,  you  will  be 
alone.  For  some  months  I  have  known  that 
I  am  dying  of  a  fatal  disease.  I  asked  the 
doctor  to  tell  me,  me  only,  so  do  not  be  angry 
with  him.  There  was  no  need  that  you  should 
suffer  beforehand.  Your  sufferings  will  be- 
gin, poor  husband,  when  mine  are  over.  I 
did  not  think  we  could  have  borne  the  slow 
separation.  If  I  have  been  impatient  some- 
times of  late,  forgive  me. 

"  You  will  not  really  be  alone,  although 
at  first  you  may  think  so.  And,  besides,  you 
will  have  Margie.  She  will  grow  up  to  be 
your  companion.  Make  her  happy,  as  you 
have  made  me.  Make  her  happy — and  good. 
Good-bye.  God  be  with  you.  Good-bye. 
"  Your  own  Margaret." 


102  HER   MEMORY. 

"Oh!  I  want  to  stay!    I  want  to  stay! " 

He  laid  down  the  paper,  and  stood  gazing 
at  the  domes  and  steeples  in  the  distance. 
Church-spires!  And  the  pale  blue  heaven  be- 
yond them!  Why  mourn  ye  as  they  that  have 
no  hope? 

"  If  I  have  been  impatient  sometimes." 
No,  she  had  never  been  impatient.  But  what 
long  strain  of  silent  fortitude  looked  out  from 
under  those  few  words!  And  in  the  face  of 
Paradise  and  all  the  "  consolations  of  re- 
ligion," oh,  the  human  right  of  fruitless  re- 
bellion! 

He  could  think  no  more.  He  sank  down 
by  the  open  window,  with  the  sullen  twinkle 
of  the  restless  water  beneath  him,  and  in  an 
agony  of  tenderness  he  prayed  unmeaning 
words  to  the  God  whose  voice  seemed  lost  in 
the  barren  murmurs,  whose  face  seemed  van- 
ished from  the  empty  sky. 

But  that  evening,  for  the  first  time,  at 


HER   MEMORY.  103 

Margie's  reiterated  request,  he  went  to  the 
child's  room  to  "  kiss  her  good-night,"  and 
be  present  at  her  devotions.  She  had  asked 
for  this  after  his  coming  to  her  in  the  dark  at 
the  Nice  hotel;  during  these  ensuing  days  he 
had  not  found  courage  to  comply,  for  he  was 
acquainted  with  Margie's  prayers,  unsophis- 
ticated yet  stereotype,  like  all  children's.  The 
usual  "  Oh!  God  bless,"  and  then  the  proces- 
sion of  her  whole  small  world  defiling  before 
the  great  White  Throne,  with  herself  at  the 
end,  in  the  habit  of  a  penitent,  "  and  bless  me 
and  make  me  good.  Amen." 

If  children  reflect  much  about  their  daily 
petitions,  they  must  conclude  it  a  strange 
thing  that  none  but  themselves  should  re- 
quire a  change  for  the  better — no  wonder 
they  fancy  all  grown-ups  are  pious — and  also, 
they  must  become  astounded  at  the  hopeless 
depravity  which  requires  such  continuous  and 
("  Oh!  you  are  a  naughty  girl!  ")  such  appar- 
ently fruitless  appeal. 


104  ^^^   MEMORY. 

In  Margie's  procession,  animals  had  been 
included — a  small  Noah's  Ark.  Nurse  Lin- 
tot  had  early  attempted  to  quash  this  innova- 
tion as  irreverent;  but  her  charge's  hard  rea- 
soning, that  "  if  she  loved  Joey,  she  might 
pray  for  him,"  had  caused  the  case  to  be 
referred  to  a  higher  tribunal  which  permitted 
all  things  in  reverence  and  love.  But  compli- 
cations were  not  long  in  asserting  themselves. 
Joey  repeatedly  misbehaved  on  the  nursery 
carpet,  and  his  young  mistress,  then  aged  five, 
insisted  upon  removing  him  from  his  rank  in 
the  procession  and  placing  him  next  to  her- 
self at  the  end.  The  non-conversion  of  Joey 
was  one  of  the  queerest  conundrums  of  her 
young  religious  life,  until  her  patient  mother 
showed  her  by  what  marvellous  blending  of 
counsel  and  conscience,  of  punishment  and 
practice,  even  the  will  of  a  little  dog  slowly 
turns  to  the  right. 

Now,  however,  the  mother's  wise  voice 
was  still.     Miss  Gray  feebly  sought  to  con- 


HER   MEMORY. 


105 


vince  her  small  pupil  that  alterations  were 
desirable  in  these  childish  petitions.  But,  like 
many  another  before  her,  the  girl  vehemently 
refused  to  omit  the  best-loved  name  of  all. 
She  sat  up  in  her  bed. 

"  Mamma  is  dead  " — with  a  gulp — "  isn't 
she.  Miss  Gray?  " 

"  Yes,  dear;  you  know  she  is." 

"  Well,  that  means  she's  alive,  doesn't  it? 
only  not  on  earth — that's  what  Nurse  Lintot 
says.  And  Nurse  Lintot  must  know  better'n 
you,  because  all  her  family's  dead,  and  you've 
got  a  lot  of  relations." 

"  Ye— e— es,  but " 

''  If  mamma's  alive,  I  shall  pray  for  her. 
I  stopped  praying  for  Joey,  because  papa  said 
that  when  little  dogs  are  dead  they  are  really 
dead." 

Which  shows  that  the  reflective  Anthony 
could,  on  occasion,  be  as  apodictic  as  Mrs. 
Fosby.  And  so  can  all  of  us  when  we  are 
called  upon  to  affirm  more  than  we  know. 


Io6  HER   MEMORY. 

But,  night  after  night,  to  hear  the  child 
praying  for  the  dead  mother,  so  mysteriously 
passed  away — gone — was  almost  more  than 
the  father  could  bear. 

"  Papa,  I  want  to  ask  you  something," 
said  Margie.  "  I've  wanted  to  ask  you  for  a 
long  time.  I  want  to  ask  you  if  something's 
wrong." 

"  Well,  Margie?  " 

"  I've  got  nobody  else  to  ask,  you  see. 
I  always  used  to  ask  mamma,  I  s'pose  you 
know?  " 

"  Know  what?  " 

"  What's  right  and  what's  wrong.  Mam- 
ma always  did,  at  once."  Margie  nodded  her 
curly  head  with  much  energy,  rocking  to  and 
fro,  a  white  figure,  in  the  white  bed. 

"  Oh — yes!  I  hope  so.  Do  you  never  ask 
Miss  Gray?  " 

"Oh,  no!" — horizontal  nods — "I  mean, 
sometimes.  But  Miss  Gray  says  she  must 
think  about  it.     So  I  s'pose  she  looks  it  out 


HER   MEMORY.  107 

in  a  book.  Like  when  I  asked  her  what  was 
the  capital  of  Servia!  I  caught  her  then." 
And  Margie  laughed  heartily. 

"  Hush,  Margie,  you  wouldn't  have 
known  what  was  the  capital  of  Serv^ia  if  I 
hadn't  told  you.  And  I  don't  believe  even 
now  you  remember  the  name  of  the  chief 
place  in  Montenegro!" 

*^  But  that  isn't  my  question,  papa,"  re- 
plied Margie,  adroitly.  "  I  want  to  ask  you," 
and  she  dropped  her  voice  and  sidled  up 
against  the  railing  of  her  cot.  "  Is  it  wrong? 
After  everyone's  gone,  and  youVe  tucked  me 
in,  I  say  a  little  prayer  to  myself,  *  Please  God, 
make  mamma  happy  in  heaven '  " — and  sud- 
denly Margie  began  to  cry. 

"  Yes,  it's  right,"  said  the  father,  wildly, 
and  he  went  out.  The  door  of  the  opposite 
room  closed  as  he  opened  his;  he  caught  the 
words,  "  Tiens,  la  petite  du  veuf  qui  pleure!  " 
"  Pity!  "  he  said  angrily,  to  himself.  "  Pity 
everywhere!    God  alone  is  pitiless."    But  as 


I08  HER   MEMORY. 

he  said  the  words,  their  unreasonableness 
struck  home  to  him,  and  he  understood  how 
much  the  mercy  of  God  must  be  above  the 
pity  of  men.  He  went  back  to  the  child's 
room.  "  Darling,"  he  said  softly,  "  I  think 
mamma  is  happy  in  heaven.  I  don't  think 
she  wanted  to  leave  us,  but  I  think  she  is 
happy  now,  for  I  think  God  has  told  her  a 
great  many  things  that  you  and  I  don't 
know." 

"  I  thought  you  knew  everything,"  said 
Margie. 

A  child  lives  in  episodes;  its  thoughts  fol- 
low in  dots;  its  emotions  apparently  lie  side 
by  side.  That  this  is  so  we  have  all  been 
taught  when  we  grew  up  and  grew  sensible, 
yet  we  rarely  realise  it  in  our  intercourse  with 
the  children  around  us.  At  its  best  that  inter- 
course is  always  laborious;  so  few  of  us  have 
been  children  ourselves. 

For  the  next  fortnight,  Margie  remained 


HER   MEMORY.  109 

entirely  engrossed  in  the  delight  of  confec- 
tioning clay  pottery  and  getting  it  baked — a 
mystery  into  which  she  had  been  initiated  by 
the  pitiful  French  lady  opposite.  A  consid- 
erable period  elapsed  during  which  she  never 
referred  to  her  mother  at  all,  and  Anthony, 
whose  reflections  were  now  purely  tender, 
found  himself  craving  for  a  far  fuller  sym- 
pathy than  Margie  could  ever  have  bestowed. 
To  a  nature  such  as  his,  a  young  child's  par- 
ticipation in  its  sorrow  could  convey  little 
comfort,  but  rather  increase  of  pain. 

They  had  gone  on  to  Siena.  One  evening, 
their  walk  being  over,  they  were  standing  on 
the  market-place  there,  behind  the  Palazzo 
Publico,  with  their  backs  turned  to  the  untidy 
ascent  of  buildings  and  their  eyes  gazing  down 
across  the  vast  extent  of  plain.  In  the  dis- 
tance, rain-shadowed,  hung  the  hills.  Mar- 
gie, who  had  insisted  on  taking  her  skipping- 
rope,  now  stood  still,  her  cheeks  flushed,  her 
eyes  far  away. 


no  HER   MEMORY. 

"  If  I  could  only  see  her  face  for  just  one 
teeny  moment,  I  should  know/'  she  said,  sud- 
denly, with  vehemence. 

Anthony  started,  but  made  no  reply. 

"  Papa,  I  always  knew  at  once  whether 
mamma  was  pleased  or  not." 

"  She  would  be  pleased  with  you,  Margie; 
you  try  to  be  good." 

"  I  don't  mean  that,"  said  Margie,  march- 
ing off. 

"  Margie,  Margie,  take  care!  Good  heav- 
ens, child,  do  look  where  you're  going;  you 
were  very  nearly  over  the  side!  " 

Margie  withdrew  her  gaze  from  the  great 
emptiness  above  her.  Miss  Gray  had  recently 
told  her  the  Struwelpeter  story  of  the  school- 
boy who  was  eaten  by  fishes;  she  had  been 
vastly  offended,  but  from  her  father  such  mis- 
conceptions were  not  to  be  endured. 

"  I  can't  help  looking  up,  when  I'm  out 
walking,"  she  said.  "  In  all  the  pictures,  in 
the  churches,  there's  always  lots  of  people 


HER   MEMORY.  m 

looking  out  of  Heaven.  Papa,  does  God  never 
look  out,  now,  as  He  did  in  Moses's  time  and 
Michel  Angelo's?  " 

"  Not  for  us  to  see  Him,"  said  Anthony. 

"  But  Michel  Angelo  saw  Him  dozens  of 
times,  and  he  didn't  live  so  long  ago,  you 
said.  It  isn't  like  Moses,  who  died  before 
grandma  was  born.  She  told  me.  And  there's 
such  a  lot  of  Heaven  here  in  places;  doesn't  one 
little  angel  ever  look  out  any  more,  papa?  " 

''  And  what  would  you  do  with  the  angels, 
child?  " 

"  Why,  if  mamma  could  only  look  out  for 
one  minute,  half  a  minute,  only  half  a  minute, 
I  should  know  if  she  was  happy  up  there." 

"  Ah,  if  she  could — what  would  we  not 
ask!" 

Margie  shook  her  head  with  a  solemn  smile 
of  superiority. 

"  How  could  she  hear  us,  papa?  She 
couldn't  hear  us  up  there!  But  I  sha'n't  need 
to  ask  anything.    I  shall  just  see  her  face  and 


112  HER   MEMORY. 

know.  Do  you  know,  papa,  there's  a  thing 
I'm  most  afraid  of;  it  makes  me  quite  wretched 
sometimes.    I  could  cry  all  day." 

"  What  is  it,  Margie?  " 

*'  I  don't  want  to  tell  you.  You  won't 
laugh?  " 

"Laugh!" 

*'  I'm  so  afraid,  when  she  does  look  out  at 
last,  /  sha'n't  be  looking!  And  I  can't  look 
up  all  day,  papa,  like  the  children  in  the  pic- 
tures. You  can't  unless  you're  a  picture,  and 
even  a  lot  of  those  are  looking  away  at  the 
people  come  to  see.  But,  with  them  it 
wouldn't  matter,  because  there's  others  look- 
ing. But  I  can't  keep  on  long;  Miss  Gray 
wouldn't  let  me.  And  besides,  it  hurts  my 
neck." 

"  Margie " 

"  Oh!  I  wonder  how  it  was  in  the  picture 
days!" 

"  Listen,  Margie;  you  will  never  see  your 
mother  looking  down  from  Heaven." 


HER   MEMORY. 


113 


"  But,  papa- 


"  Never.  All  the  same,  I  believe  she  does 
look  down.  And  her  face,  though  you  can- 
not see  it,  will  be  happy  if  she  sees  you  happy 
and  good." 

She  turned  away  from  the  immense  land- 
scape and  walked  on  quickly:  he  could  see 
that  she  was  struggling  with  herself. 

Presently  she  stopped  and  swept  one  small 
hand,  with  skipping-rope  attached,  across  the 
dull  grey  vault,  far  and  wide  above  them,  from 
which  the  last  lurid  lines  were  fading  in  the 
west. 

"  Then  nobody  has  ever  seen  the  angels  in 
the  sky?  "  she  asked,  but  the  interrogation  in 
her  voice  was  perfunctory.  "  Oh,  papa,  I 
never  want  you  to  show  me  any  of  the  beauti- 
ful pictures  again !  Oh  papa,  what  is  that  little 
boy  doing?  Tell  him  not  to  beat  that  dear 
Httle  dog!  " 

So  the  first  seeds  of  doubt  were  sown  in 
Margie^s  heart,  doubt  of  her  father,  who  had 


114  ^^^   MEMORY. 

more  thati  once  rashly  declared  that  the  great 
painters  painted  what  they  saw;  doubt  of  the 
marvellous  Bible  stories,  which  of  course  must 
be  true,  though  apparently  they  weren't; 
doubt  of  all  human  certitude,  where  the 
grown-ups  invented,  made  up,  fairy-tale  an- 
gels, just  as  children  and  their  dolls  make  be- 
lieve to  be  grown-ups.  That  doesn't  make 
them  grown-ups. 

For  a  long  time  Anthony  hesitated 
whether  he  should  abandon  his  impulsive  re- 
solve never  again  to  let  the  child  behold  a  like- 
ness of  the  mother  they  had  left  in  the  boudoir 
at  Thurdles.  There  existed  no  portrait  of 
Margaret  deserving  the  name.  They  had 
quitted  their  home  with  nothing  but  the 
clothes  on  their  backs:  he  had  no  wish  to  write 
for  anything,  least  of  all  for  photographs  he 
abhorred.  Let  the  child,  if  unreality  there 
must  be,  imagine  a  fair  unreality  of  her  own. 
Nature  herself,  often  unwise  perhaps,  but  al- 
ways invincible,  had  frustrated  his  design  of 


HER    MEMORY.  n^ 

oblivion — he  now  set  himself  to  build  up,  for 
the  child  even  more  than  for  himself,  a  beauti- 
ful fancy,  a  vague  splendour,  shrouded  and 
aureoled  in  death. 

So  they  travelled,  seeing,  studying — striv- 
ing, as  most  of  us  do,  to  think  of  something 
else.  And  so  they  settled  at  Florence,  and 
lived  on  in  study  and  sight-seeing,  as  do  the 
best  of  us,  and  in  thinking  of  something  else. 
And  gradually,  on  the  father's  heart  there 
deepened  a  devotion,  hitherto  undreamed,  to 
his  work,  and  on  the  daughter's  a  cult  of  all 
that  is  righteous  and  lovely,  embodied  in  her 
vision  of  the  dead. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Four  years  passed  thus  uneventfully  at 
Florence,  or  among  the  neighbouring  hills. 
During  that  period  Anthony  never  once  went 
northward.  Why  should  he?  Soon  it  had  be- 
come to  him  an  insupportable  vexation  to  re- 
call, and  far  more  to  revisit,  home  scenes.  He 
had  few  near  relations  or  connections;  such 
as  he  possessed  had  but  rarely  come  his  way. 
None  of  them  disturbed  his  Italian  seclusion. 
Sir  Henry  was  far  too  much  occupied  in  Eng- 
land; Mrs.  Fosby  had  a  hard-and-fast  rule  of 
her  own  about  "  awaiting  an  invitation,"  and 
meanwhile  confined  herself  to  voluminous 
epistolary  protest,  advice,  consolation,  appeal. 
Anthony  painfully  replied.  The  child  was 
healthy  here,  happy,  well-cared  for,  well 
taught.     Delicate  by  nature,  she  had  taken 

Ii6 


HER   MEMORY.  ny 

kindly  to  the  climate.  Her  mother  had  often 
discussed  with  him  the  desirability  of  winter- 
ing abroad.  If  he  returned  at  all,  it  must  be  to 
Oakshire,  to  Rusborough,  to  Thurdles.  Why 
should  he  take  a  step  so  utterly  distasteful 
without  adequate  cause? 

So  he  stayed  where  he  was,  and,  hav- 
ing posted  his  letters,  returned  to  his  paint- 
ing. He  no  longer  sent  pictures  to  the 
Academy. 

The  child  would  sit  in  the  studio  and 
watch  him.  His  subjects  were  now  all  Italian, 
chiefly  Italian  female  saints.  He  painted 
slowly,  pausing  to  learn.  The  child,  some- 
times weary  of  watching,  would  get  up  and 
arrange  things,  till  his  fingers  itched  with  irri- 
tation. She  had  no  artistic  instinct:  she 
could  be  absolutely  trusted  never  to  drop  any- 
thing, never  to  upset  anything,  never  to  place 
anything  right.  All  her  likes  were  straight: 
knick-knacks  stood  on  her  table,  as  on  a  stall. 
And  Miss  Gray  had  taught  her  to  be  neat. 


Il8  HER   MEMORY. 

There  was  an  empty  inner  room  behind 
the  studio  into  which  Margie  Hked  to  wander. 
In  early  days  she  had  dubbed  it  hers,  and 
played  make-believe  it  was  "  England,"  with- 
out any  sense  or  sequence,  as  children  do.  To 
her  chagrin  he  locked  it  one  morning,  and 
told  her  he  must  have  it  for  himself.  It  be- 
came an  understood  thing  that  no  one,  not 
even  Margie,  might  disturb  him  when  he 
passed  into  that  room. 

On  one  spring  morning  of  his  fourth  year 
at  Florence  an  imperious  knock  sounded  on 
the  silence  of  his  sanctum,  and  an  imperious 
voice  he  did  not  recognise  called  his  name. 
Annoyed  and  astonished,  he  slipped  through 
the  door,  and  confronted  an  excited  young 
lady. 

"  Surely  you  remember  me?  "  she  said, 
speaking  hurriedly.  *^  We  met  at  Monte 
Carlo.  I  am  Eveline  Hunt.  Somebody  down- 
stairs— I   suppose   it*s   the   landlady — said   I 


HER    MEMORY.  ng 

couldn't  come  up,  but  I  pushed  her  aside. 
When  one  human  creature  is  in  need  of  an- 
other, it's  ridiculous  to  talk  of  disturbance. 
There  she  is!  Please,  Mr.  Stollard,  send  her 
away." 

He  obeyed  wonderingly,  and  suggested 
that  his  visitor  should  sit  down. 

But  Eveline  Hunt  remained  standing  in 
the  middle  of  the  room. 

"  You  must  forgive  me,"  she  said;  "  I  sup- 
pose I  appear  rude.  I  haven't  the  slightest 
desire  to  be  rude.  Your  little  daughter  met 
me  on  the  stairs — she  said  she  was  your 
daughter — and  told  me  to  go  back.  A  nice 
child.    I  liked  her  for  that." 

"  My  dear  young  lady,  I  am  at  your  serv- 
ice.   But  pray  take  this  seat." 

"  Tell  me,  Mr.  Stollard,  you  loved  your 
wife,  did  you  not?  "  Anthony's  eyes  grew 
hard. 

"  Yes,"  he  said. 

"  I  know  you  did.     Haven't  I,  a  hundred 


I20  HER   MEMORY. 

times,  heard  Lady  Mary  call  you  romantic? 
Let  her  laugh!  I  believe  if  she  ever  loved 
anyone,  it  was  you!  " 

"  My  dear  Miss  Hunt,  I  must  beg  of 
you "  cried  Anthony  in  distress. 

"  Oh,  loved  a  la  Lady  Mary,  I  mean. 
Nothing  to  weep  over.  I  should  certainly  not 
betray  heart  secrets,  but  I  don't  possess  hers 
— if  she's  got  any.  However,  I  haven't  come 
here  to  speak  of  Lady  Mary,  but  of  myself. 
/  had  a  heart  secret.  It's  everybody's  secret 
now!"  Her  voice  trembled:  tears  brimmed 
across  her  passionate  eyes:  she  dashed  them 
back.  "  Let  me  tell  you  everything  calmly. 
I  am  not  a  flirt,  Mr.  Stollard,  but,  of  course, 
when  I  came  out,  men  proposed  to  me — there 
is  no  glory  in  that;  I  am  part  of  a  bank.  I 
said  '  no  '  once  or  twice,  when  my  father  and 
Lady  Mary  would  have  liked  me  to  say  ^  yes.' 
All  that  is  very  natural — everybody  knows  as 
much;  but  I  wanted  " — her  voice  drooped, 
and  so  did  her  eyelids,  her  hands,  her  head — 


HER   MEMORY.  121 

"  I  wanted  to  say  '  yes/  on  one  occasion, 
when  my  father  insisted  on  my  saying  '  no/  " 

A  moment  of  silence  ensued.  Anthony 
did  not  stir. 

"  I  did  just  as  they  wished,  and  there  was 
no  more  talk  of  the  matter.  He  was  an  artist: 
he — had  given  me  lessons.  He  was  terribly 
poor.  I  heard  no  more  of  him  for  some 
months,  until,  three  days  ago,  I  learnt  from  a 
friend  that  he  was  in  Florence,  dying."  Again 
she  stopped.  The  room  was  quite  still.  The 
bright  sun  poured  down  into  it.  "  And  so  I 
came  here." 

"  Alone? "  exclaimed  Anthony.  She 
turned  on  him  angrily,  her  pent-up  emotion 
thus  finding  vent. 

"  Did  you  expect  me  to  wait  for  Lady 
Mary?  "  she  cried. 

"  Well,^  so  be  it.  I  will  help  you  to  find 
him.    And  then  we  will  see  what  can  be  done." 

"  I  needed  no  help  to  find  him/'  she  said, 
and  her  pale  face  grew  sufifused  with  colour. 


122  HER   MEMORY. 

"  He  is  lying  in  a  garret  not  far  from  here,  too 
ill  to  be  moved." 

"  And  you  want  me  to  go  to  him  to  assist 
him?  I  shall  be  very  pleased  to  do  so.  For 
the  present  it  would  hardly  be  prudent  to  tell 
him  you  are  here." 

"  I  have  been  with  him  all  night." 

The  room  seemed  more  silent  than  ever, 
the  sunlight  more  glaring. 

"Oh,  Miss  Hunt,  how  could  you But 

forgive  me.    He  is  very  ill  you  say?  " 

*'  He  cannot  possibly  live  much  longer." 
Anthony  checked  a  faint  gasp  of  what  might 
almost  have  sounded  like  relief. 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  he  said;  "but,  now, 
what  is  it  you  want  me  to  do?  " 

"  I  want  you  to  recommend  me  to  your 
landlady,  to  take  me  under  your  protection,  to 
let  me  live  here  and  go  to  him  from  here  un- 
molested until — all  is  over.  Then  I  want  you 
to  let  me  go  away  unmolested.    That  is  all." 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  and  paced  up  and 


HER    MEMORY.  123 

down  the  room,  in  the  painful,  sun-lit  silence. 
At  last  he  stopped  before  her. 

"  You  are  ruining  your  hfe,"  he  said.  She 
looked  up  at  him,  and,  grown  suddenly  calm: 

"  What  a  foolish  remark,"  she  said  scorn- 
fully. "  It  sounds  very  clever,  but  it  really 
means  nothing.    My  Hfe  is  ruined  already." 

"Oh,  you  mustn't  say  that!"  he  cried. 
Then  his  voice  grew  very  serious :  "  Into  some 
few  lives  there  does  come  at  an  early  stage  the 
— how  shall  I  call  it? — the  irretrievable.  If  it 
must  come,  it  must.  But,  for  God's  sake,  let  it 
come  of  itself!  " 

She  bent  her  head  on  her  hands  that  he 
might  not  see  it.  Then  she  looked  up 
again. 

"  Don't  be  afraid:  I'm  not  going  to  cry,'* 
she  said.  "  It's  no  use  talking,  I  can't  help 
myself.  I  must  comfort  him  these  few  days. 
You  can't  think  how  little  life  looks,  face  to 
face  with  death." 

"  Oh,  I  know  that!  "  he  exclaimed  pas- 


124 


HER   MEMORY. 


sionately.       "  And    life    remains    little — and 
long." 

She  sat  ruminating  these  words.  At  last 
she  asked: 

"  You  think  I  am  acting  wrong?  " 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  say  that;  only " 

She  rose,  and  her  glance  swept  round  the 
Italian  saints,  half  finished,  just  begun,  upon 
easels  against  the  walls.  Their  faces  were 
calm  and  symmetrical:  they  all  looked  very 
pure  and  good. 

"  Would  you  have  me  go  hack?  "  she  ex- 
claimed. "  You — what  do  you  care  for  social 
considerations?  What  do  you  give  for  Lady 
Mary's  advice,  or  Sir  Henry's  career,  or  Mrs. 
Fosby's  reproaches?  I  came  to  you,  naturally, 
as  to  a  man  who  listens  just  to  the  voice  of 
his  heart,  a  man  who  doesn't  '  reside '  in  this 
world  but  who  lives  in  it,  a  man — oh,  my 
God! — who  dares  to  be  wretched,  dares  to 
suffer — so  few  men  have  the  courage  to  be 
weak!" 


HER  MEMORY. 


125 


**  But  then  I  am  a  man,  as  you  say " 

began  Anthony,  endeavouring  to  calm  her. 

"  Yes,  I  know.  That  is  your  universal  ex- 
cuse for  doing  wrong — or  doing  right.  We 
women  can  do  neither:  we  can  only  do  as 
usual!  Mr.  Stollard,  I  haven't  come  here  to 
air  my  poor  ^  fads,'  as  my  step-mother  calls 
them.  I  have  come  here  to  do  a  good  action: 
you  must  help  me  to  accomplish  it.  I  can 
manage  my  bad  actions  alone." 

"  Surely  he  could  be  sufficiently  cared  for," 
expostulated  Anthony.  "  If  you  gave  me  his 
name — we  have  an  excellent  society " 

*' Don't,"  she  said.  "Oh,  yes,  charity 
could  bring  him  broth — which  he  can't  swal- 
low." 

"  I  would  rather  he  died  to-night,"  she 
cried,  and  began  pacing  the  room,  "  than  that 
Christian  charity  should  touch  him!  Oh,  I 
know  your  excellent  society,  that  is  born  of 
our  social  crimes!  Here  too,  in  Florence,  of 
course — that  the  nine-tenths  may  safely  go 


126  HER   MEMORY. 

unto  Caesar — you  pay  your  dime  to  God!  Oh, 
I  know  of  your  props  and  your  plasterings! 
Of  how  many  societies  is  Lady  Mary  not  Pa- 
troness and  President?  Your  '  succour '  shall 
not  touch  him,  do  you  hear?  "  She  turned 
upon  Anthony  furiously.  "  He  isn't  *  indi- 
gent ':  all  the  jewels  I  have  with  me  are  his!  " 

Anthony  stood  watching  her  with  a  puz- 
zled expression.  He  was  quite  willing  to  like 
her,  to  pity  her  more.  . 

"  And  you  will  assist  me  in  disposing  of 
them  to  the  cheats  on  the  Ponte  Vecchio," 
she  added.    She  heaved  a  big  bored  sigh. 

"  Let  us  speak  to  Mrs.  Thomson,"  he  said; 
"  at  any  rate,  you  must  find  some  place  where- 
in you  can  spend  this  night." 

She  stood  thinking,  a  graceful  figure,  in 
her  contempt. 

"  Very  well,"  she  said.  "  The  world  is 
idiotic.    I  can  go  to  him  all  day." 

That  evening  Lady  Mary  arrived  in  Flor- 


HER   MEMORY.  127 

ence,  and  immediately  sent  for  Anthony  to 
her  hotel.  She  had  grown  a  little  stouter  in 
these  four  years;  she  looked  very  handsome 
and  flurried. 

"  Applaud  me,"  she  said  immediately.  "  I 
have  risen  to  the  occasion.  Whatever  may 
happen,  I  have  done  my  duty.    I  am  here." 

"  Miss  Hunt  is  safely  housed  with  a  re- 
spectable widow,"  answered  Anthony. 

"  That  is  excellent,  but  it  is  unimportant. 
Miss  Hunt  is  staying  at  the  Grand  Hotel  Vic- 
toria, which  is  full  of  English  tourists,  even  at 
this  season.  She  accompanied  Lady  Mary 
Hunt,  who  was  suddenly  called  to  the  death- 
bed of  an  aged  relative — a  connection  of  the 
Hunt  family.  My  relatives  are  too  well 
known!  That  will  be  in  all  the  papers  to- 
morrow."   Lady  Mary  sighed. 

"  And  nobody  will  believe  it,"  she  added. 
She  looked  away  wistfully,  through  the  win- 
dow, to  the  darkling  river. 

"  I  was  to  have  dined  with  the  Prince  on 


128  HER   MEMORY. 

Friday  next,"  she  said,  "  at  the  Duchess  of 
Dorrisford's.  Nobody  will  believe  it."  She 
brightened  up.  ''  Do  you  know,  I  am  proud  of 
that  stroke  about  the  English  tourists,"  she 
said.  "  It  will  please  the  poor  hotel  keepers; 
there's  not  a  soul  in  the  house!  "  She  threw 
up  her  hands.  "  I  am  ready  to  do  anything," 
she  said.  "  I  shall  order  light  mourning, 
though  heliotrope  never  suited  me!  I  am  will- 
ing to  advertise  Miss  Octavia  Hunt  in  the 
Times^ — I  think  '  Octavia  '  looks  well.  In  the 
middle  of  the  season,  I  will  spend  a  week,  any- 
where! But  it's  dreadful  to  think  that  it's  all 
of  no  use.    People  always  know." 

Anthony  was  too  conscious  of  this  fact; 
he  could  offer  no  consolation. 

"  You  might  say  they  didn't,"  she  ex- 
claimed, laughing  hastily.  "  But  they  do.  I 
am  never  quite  sure  whether  the  farce  one  gets 
up  over  every  tragedy  is  worth  playing.  But 
'tis  a  traditional  rule  to  have  a  sort  of  lever  de 
rideau.    They  always  do  at  all  the  courts  when 


HER   MEMORY.  129 

a  royal  personage  commits  suicide,  or  elopes, 
or  does  anything;  first  there's  a  make-beUeve, 
and  then  comes  the  piece!  So  I  suppose  it's 
the  wisest  thing  to  do,  or  they  wouldn't  do  it. 
Poor  Evehne!  " 

"  But  there's  nothing  much  amiss  now 
you've  come,"  suggested  Anthony  sooth- 
ingly. 

"  Oh,  no,  nothing  much.  Only  that  Miss 
Eveline  Hunt  has  run  away  to  live  with  her 
drawing-master!  All  the  way  to  Florence! 
Five  thousand  a  year  ought  to  get  over  that!  '* 
She  spoke  with  great  bitterness,  her  hands 
trembled.  "  And  she  merely  fell  in  love  with 
this  man  from  pique.  In  one  season  five  hus- 
bands presented  themselves,  all  more  or  less 
desirable.  The  last  was  Lord — well,  never 
mind;  she  has  the  slightest  obliquity  of  vision; 
her  father  was  very  anxious  she  should  take 
him,  so  she  said  she  would  marry  the  first 
lover  with  regular  features.  She  has  always 
been  like  this.    It  is  very  diverting,  I  dare  say. 


I30  HER   MEMORY. 

but  it  doesn't  answer.  Eveline  tries  to  be 
original;  that  is  stupider,  though  less  danger- 
ous, than  being  born  queer.  Elle  n'a  pas 
besoin  de  courir  apres  I'esprit  pour  attraper  la 
betise." 

"  Lady  Mary,  you  exaggerate !  " 

'^  A  painter!" 

"  You  forget  that  I  am  an  artist." 

"  Oh,  nonsense!  So  is  Thomas.  He's  got 
some  things  hanging  in  his  dressing-room  he 
did  at  school,  as  a  boy!  He's  exceedingly 
proud  of  them.  They're  dreadfully  poor. 
But,  then,  you  see,  he  isn't.  I  know  you  paint 
very  well.  So  does  the  Empress  Victoria. 
Painting  as  an  accomplishment  is  of  course 
very  different  from  painting  as  a  profes- 
sion." 

"  Art  is  not  a  thing  anyone  need  be 
ashamed  of,  as  long  as  it  is  second-rate,"  said 
Anthony  angrily. 

"  Don't  be  silly.  And  now  go  and  fetch 
me  Eveline.     We  must  meet,  the  sooner  the 


HER   MEMORY.  131 

better,  and  I  think  your  presence  will  be  an 
advantage." 

"  If  you  are  hard  on  the  girl,  I  shall  take 
her  part." 

"  Of  course.  How  prettily  you  put  it. 
But  I  am  not  nearly  as  *  hard '  as  her  own 
father,  who,  being  a  cheesemonger's  grand- 
son, takes  up  the  matter  far  more  strongly 
than  I.  He  asked  me  the  other  day,  in  Eve- 
line's presence,  whether,  if  /  had  married  my 
drawing-master,  my  father  would  not  have 
thought  the  family  everlastingly  disgraced? 
Veracity  compelled  me  to  answer  *  no.'  He 
asked  me  what  the  devil  I  meant,  and  really 
I  found  it  impossible  to  explain."  Again  she 
laughed  softly,  and  rubbed  her  trembling 
hands. 

"  Well,  I  shall  do  my  best,"  said  Anthony, 
rising. 

"  Oh,  do  wait  a  moment!  I  enjoy  talking 
to  you,  and  I  get  the  chance  once  in  four 
years.    What  I  like  is  your  air  of  indifference. 


132  HER   MEMORY. 

while,  in  reality,  you  catch  every  'nuance.' 
With  you  it  is  the  real  thing.  You  are  absurd, 
Anthony — ^you  are  impossible — I  tell  you 
frankly!  You  play  at  being  a  Bohemian,  and 
at  bottom  you  are  an  old-fashioned  English 
gentleman.  You  an  artist-person  like  Mr. 
Geoffrey  Strainge!  Why,  the  honour  of  any 
woman  would  be  safe  in  your  hands !  I  believe 
you  go  regularly  to  the  English  church  here 
on  Sundays,  with  your  little  daughter,  and  her 
English  nurse!  Oh,  I  know  I'm  old-fash- 
ioned now!  You  were  born  to  be  an  English 
squire,  a  J.  P.  and  Member  of  Parliament. 
And  I  wish  you  were,  instead  of  wasting  your 
time  at  Florence,  painting  English  bread- 
and-butter  saints.  There,  don't  express  your 
anger  in  words.  And  fetch  me  my  poor  lover 
of  art — and  artists.  Poor  girl!  Poor  girl! 
What  a  mess  you  clever  people  make  of  your 
lives! " 

Eveline  was  not  at  the  Pension.    It  was  a 


HER   MEMORY.  133 

good  thing  that  Anthony,  on  recommending 
her  to  his  landlady,  had  insisted  on  knowing 
the  address  of  the  sick  artist,  as  well  as  his 
name.  He  now  hastened  thither,  and  found 
the  house  in  a  narrow  by-street  off  the  narrow 
street  where  once  Dante's  father  lived. 

The  painter's  room  was  at  the  top  of  the 
house.  Anthony  knocked,  and  Eveline 
opened  the  door.  "  You  will  wake  him,"  she 
said  with  irritation,  "  he  is  asleep." 

Anthony  answered:  "  Lady  Mary  has  ar- 
rived and  wants  you  to  come  to  her." 

"I  have  no  objection,"  replied  the  girl; 
"  but  at  this  moment,  you  will  admit.  Lady 
Mary  is  quite  a  secondary  consideration." 

"  But  you  promised " 

"  I  keep  my  promises.  I  am  waiting  for  a 
Sister  of  Mercy;  she  ought  to  have  been  here 
before." 

Anthony  advanced  into  the  garret — it  was 
hardly  more.  The  ''  drawing-master  "  lay  in 
a  shaded  corner.    "  I  shall  stay  till  the  Sister 


134  IIER   MEMORY. 

comes.,"  said  Eveline.  "  Will  you  stay  too? 
I  don't  want  to  be  ungrateful.  Thank  you  for 
coming  to  look  for  me."  She  resumed  her 
seat,  and  her  empty  hands  fell  into  her  lap. 
They  sat  facing  each  other  speechless,  for  ten 
minutes,  in  the  dusk. 

"  Would  you  like  to  see  his  face?  "  asked 
Eveline  at  last. 

"  Don't  let  us  disturb  him,"  replied  An- 
thony, who  could  wait. 

But  she  took  up  the  parafifin  lamp  and  ad- 
vancing held  it  aloft.  "  She  loves  the  event, 
not  the  man,"  repeated  Anthony  again,  per- 
haps unjustly.  He  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  deli- 
cate countenance,  white  and  black  among  the 
pillows,  in  that  moment.  "He  is  dead!" 
shrieked  the  girl;  the  petroleum  lamp  crashed 
past  him,  extinguished  by  the  swiftness  of  its 
fall.  They  were  in  darkness;  a  strong  odour 
spread  around  them.  The  sick  man  started 
up  in  bed  with  a  cry.  The  girl  sank  down 
beside  him,  her  arms  about  his  neck.     An- 


HER   MEMORY.  135 

thony  could  hear  her  kisses,  her  fondlings: 
"  My  darling,  it  is  nothing!  It  is  nothing! 
The  lamp  was  upset.  Oh,  I  thought  that  you 
were  dead!  " 

"  I  wish  I  were,''  said  the  sick  man. 

Anthony  smiled:  the  saying,  so  natural, 
so  stupid,  characterised  the  artist  at  once — 
and  the  whole  story,  conquest,  devotion  and 
all. 

"  No,  no;  don't  say  that:  it  hurts  me. 
You're  not  going  to  die,  Geoffrey.  People 
don't  die  of  love." 

"  No,  but  they  do  of  starvation,"  replied 
Geoffrey  grimly.  "  And  also,  I  believe,  of  the 
smell  of  paraffin  oil.  And  I  was  asleep! 
Heavens,  to  think  that  I  was  asleep  at  last! 
I  do  wish  you  had  stayed  in  England." 

Before  she  could  answer,  the  door  opened, 
and  the  Italian  Sister  of  Mercy  stood  asking 
what  had  occurred.  She  brought  in  a  dirty 
little  lantern  from  the  passage. 

"  Good  God,  it  is  a  wonder  you  are  not 


136  HER   MEMORY. 

'^11  killed!  "  she  muttered.  Fortunately  the 
lamp  had  fallen  on  a  rug  by  the  bed;  this  she 
dragged  away,  and  as  she  cleaned  up  the 
mess:  "  Good  God,"  she  said  again,  "  what  a 
nurse!  " 

The  sick  man  had  sunk  back  exhausted: 
under  her  gentle  touches  he  once  more  dozed 
off.  "  The  signor  is  better,"  she  said,  feeling 
his  pulse;  "  the  fever  is  gone.  The  morning's 
amelioration  maintains  itself." 

"  Better!  "  exclaimed  Anthony,  aghast — 
horrified  at  himself.  She  turned  to  him  in  as- 
tonishment. 

"  My  coming  has  saved  him,"  said  Eve- 
line with  fervour.  **  Great  Heaven,  what  a 
happiness!    And  what  a  responsibility!  " 

"  He  is  asleep  now,"  said  Anthony,  be- 
wildered. "  The  Sister  will  watch  by  him. 
Come  with  me  to  Lady  Mary!  " 

"  I  have  no  objection,"  said  the  girl  again, 
mechanically;  "  but  Lady  Mary,  you  must  ad- 
mit, just  now  looks  so  absurdly  unimportant." 


HER   MEMORY.  137 

"  Yes,  yes,  go  and  sleep,"  said  the  Sister 
sweetly.  Eveline  moved  to  the  door;  sud- 
denly, with  a  splendid  sweep  of  her  tall  figure, 
she  bent  towards  the  bed  and  kissed  the 
sleeper  softly  on  the  forehead.  Then,  looking 
the  Sister  straight  in  the  eyes: 

"  E  il  mio  fidanzato/'  she  said. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"  Et,  apres? "  said  Lady  Mary.  She 
looked  from  her  step-daughter  to  Stollard, 
and  back  to  her  step-daughter.  In  the  silence 
the  clock  struck  ten. 

"  I  should  say,  '  bed/  "  replied  Eveline 
provokingly. 

"  So  would  any  ostrich,"  retaliated  Lady 
Mary,  "take  the  next  step;  'tis  a  very  easy 
philosophy,  especially  when  the  next  step  is 
wrong.  But  I  congratulate  you,  Eveline;  few 
people  manage  to  drop  a  paraffin  lamp  with- 
out setting  fire  to  a  good  deal,  including 
themselves." 

"  There,  you  see,"  said  Eveline. 

"  What  am  I  to  see?    The  worst  thing  that 

can  happen  is  not  always  an  explosion;  stains, 

for  instance  " — she  pointed  to  Eveline's  ulster 
138 


HER    MEMORY.  139 

— "  are  worse  in  their  way;  they  last  for 
ever." 

"  Not  paraffin  stains,"  repHed  Eveline 
pertly,  "  you  are  thinking  of  oil." 

"  For  goodness  sake  let  us  drop  metaphor, 
I  have  never  pretended  to  be  your  equal  in 
cleverness.  In  talk  you  are  past  mistress,- 
Eveline.  I  cry  mercy.  But  now  the  moment 
has  come  to  act.  To-morrow,  of  course,  you 
go  back." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Eveline. 

"  To  London,"  said  Lady  Mary. 

"  To  Geoffrey,"  said  Eveline.  They  spoke 
the  words  quite  gently.  Anthony's  heart 
gave  a  leap. 

"  Eveline,  you  say  a  great  many  things 
you  do  not  mean.  So  do  I."  Anthony  looked 
up  with  dismay  at  the  change  in  Lady  Mary's 
voice;  here  was  the  old  note  of  earnestness 
that  had  thrilled  him  more  than  twelve  years 
ago  in  their  rare  moments  of  intimacy;  he  had 
not  heard  it  since.     "  But  now  let  us  talk 


I40  HER   MEMORY. 

sense.  Mr.  Strainge,  you  tell  me,  is  out  of 
danger;  you  cannot,  therefore,  in  decency, 
remain  with  him;  the  excuse  for  your  sudden 
visit  is  gone,  and  your  father  expects  you  at 
home." 

"  I  am  going  to  marry  Mr.  Strainge,"  re- 
plied Eveline;  ''nurse  him  first,  and  marry 
him  afterwards.  Mr.  Stollard  knows  it  is 
so." 

''  I  beg  your  pardon,"  protested  Anthony, 
as  Lady  Mary  turned  interrogatively,  but 
Eveline  faced  him  down. 

"  And  do  you  think,"  she  cried,  in  blazing 
indignation,  "  that,  when  I  kissed  him  there 
before  you,  I  did  not  take  him  as  my  husband, 
once  for  all?  I  do  not  know " — and  she 
veered  round  to  her  step-mother — "  whether 
other  women  kiss  the  men  they  don't  marry? 
Not  I!" 

For  a  moment  she  was  splendid.  The 
other  two,  uncomfortably  conscious  of  each 
other's  reminiscences,  cowered  before  her. 


HER   MEMORY.  j^i 

"  The  thing  is  settled,"  she  said  loftily;  "  I 
remain  here  as  Geoffrey's  wife." 

"  Then  nothing  is  left  for  me,"  said  Lady 
Mary,  "  but  to  tell  you  your  father's  decision.* 
I  detest  that  sort  of  thing;  it  is  so  irretrievable. 
If  you  do  not  return  with  me  to  England,  he 
cuts  you  off;  from  henceforth  you  are  dead  to 
him." 

"  Dear  me,"  said  Eveline,  white  to  the  lips. 
"  Have  you  really  succeeded  in  getting  that 
done.  Lady  Mary?  I  wish  you  joy,  but  admit 
that  I  have  helped  you  a  bit." 

Lady  Mary  also  was  white. 

"  You  do  me  horrible  wrong,"  she  said, 
"  but  I  suppose  it's  no  use  talking.  Yet  you 
might  easily  comprehend,  that  I  do  not  feel 
the  disgrace  to  the  Hunt  family  as  keenly  as 
your  father  does." 

"  You  need  not  remind  me  that  you  are 
my  step-mother;  the  fact  is  evident  enough. 
But  I  refuse  to  accept  my  rejection  as  a 
daughter,  except  from  my  father's  lips." 

lO 


143  HER   MEMORY. 

"  You  must  be  content  to  receive  it  from 
his  hand,"  said  Lady  Mary,  and  she  drew  forth 
a  paper.  The  girl  seized  it,  and  read  the 
curt  sentence  it  contained.  Her  knees  sank 
away  under  her;  with  a  great  effort  she  rose 
erect.  "  My  father  speaks  of  his  affection, 
and  his  fortune,"  she  said.  "  He  evidently 
thinks  I  shall  regret  losing  both." 

"  Both  are  desirable,"  said  Lady  Mary. 

"  But  either,  I  imagine,  suffices,"  said  the 
girl.  Again  she  looked  down  splendidly  on 
her  step-mother,  who  quailed  before  such 
magnificence  of  scorn.  "  There  is  no  more  to 
be  said,"  continued  Eveline.  "  I  choose  my 
life.  I  refuse  to  marry  Lord  Farringdale,  who 
possesses  every  vice  I  despise  and  every  vir- 
tue I  dislike.  I  am  of  age,  and  I  take  as  my 
husband  " — she  glanced  down  at  the  paper 
she  held  in  her  hand — "  this  fellow,  this  draw- 
ing-master, this  Geoffrey  Strainge." 

"  And  what  will  you  live  on?  "  asked  the  . 
lady  on  the  sofa. 


HER   MEMORY.        '  143 

*'  His  genius  and  my  love." 

Lady  Mary  smiled  sadly. 

"  My  dear,  could  you  look  into  my  heart, 
you  would  be  astonished  to  see  how  deeply 
I  pity  you.  I  have  not  your  confidence,  nor 
your  affection;  you  would  laugh  at  the  kind 
words  I  am  longing  to  speak.  You  have  often 
condemned  the  comedy  of  our  society  life, 
Eveline;  perhaps  you  are  right,  but,  my  dear 
child,  you  are  making  of  your  own  existence 
a  farce — forgive  me,  if  I  speak  plainly — a 
farce,  with  a  tragical  ending,  which  nobody 
will  give  you  due  credit  for,  because  it  doesn't 
fit  into  the  piece." 

"  Whatever  kind  of  play  my  life  may  be," 
said  Eveline  proudly,  "  I  have  come  to-night 
to  the  transformation  scene.  I  do  not  im- 
peach the  ideals  you  and  all  your  set  have 
been  brought  up  to;  they  are  the  lights  of 
your  life;  art  and  love,  these  are  mine!  If 
you  do  not  mind,  I  should  like  to  retire  to 
my  room." 


144 


HER   MEMORY. 


"  Good-night,  Eveline.  Let  us  meet  to- 
morrow morning.  Believe  me,  whatever  may 
happen,  I  will  befriend  you  with  your  father 
all  I  can." 

"  Art  with  a  little  a,  Love  with  a  big  L, 
let  us  hope,"  said  Lady  Mary,  as  the  door 
closed  on  her  step-daughter.  "  Come  out  of 
your  corner,  Anthony.  Well,  do  you  ap- 
prove? " 

"  Really,  it  is  difficult  for  me,"  replied  An- 
thony, hesitatingly,  "  to  express  any  authori- 
tative opinion." 

"  Oh,  if  you  begin  like  that,  you  will  end 
by  approving.  I  don't.  Not  that  I  grudge 
Eveline  her  coveted  romance.  But  the  ro- 
mances of  real  life  begin  well  and  end  badly. 
This  one  is  bound  to." 

"'  But,  then,  you  are  so  unromantic,  so 
matter-of-fact." 

"Am  I?"  She  looked  at  hirii  wistfully. 
"  Perhaps  I  am.  Then,  at  least,  I  avoid 
being  absurd.    Absurdity  is  the  one  thing  I 


HER   MEMORY.  145 

dread.  The  fear  of  absurdity  is  my  dominant 
sin." 

"  If  she  loves  him,"  began  Anthony,  but 
the  lady  interrupted. 

"  If  she  loved  him!  him  only,  heart  and 
soul,  without  heed  of  her  own  emotions,  once 
for  all,  and  for  ever,  through  sickness  and 
desolation,  for  life  and  in  death,  thinking  only 
of  his  happiness — if  she  loved  him  as  one 
human  being  loves  once  in  a  thousand — oh! 
unfortunate,    oh!    most    favoured    amongst 

women,  who  would  dare "  she  broke  off, 

hoarse  with  the  vehemence  of  that  word,  un- 
able to  proceed. 

"  And  I  who  just  said  you  were  not  ro- 
mantic !  "  murmured  Anthony. 

"  Every  woman  is  romantic;  but  I  am  not 
sentimental.  Besides,  I  am  nearly  thirty-five 
— *  nel  mezzo  del  cammino  ' ;  that  is  an  apt 
quotation  here,  and  it  is,  moreover,  the  only 
Dante  I  know.  Oh,  except,  of  course,  '  Lasci- 
ate  ogni  speranza,'  which  is  appropriate  for 


146  HER   MEMORY. 

Eveline.  Eveline,  what  a  name!  Half  the 
fault  lies  there.  If  I  v^anted  my  daugh- 
ter to  elope  with  a  groom,  I  should  call  her 
Diana." 

"  Now  you  are  superstitious,"  protested 
Anthony. 

"  Call  me  whatever  you  like,  but  let  me  go 
my  own  way.  I  tell  you,  I  have  seen  the 
world.  Nothing  succeeds  in  it  except  com- 
mon sense;  and  that  only  succeeds  because 
it  is  so  uncommon.  I  would  give  my  right 
hand — yes,  I  know  what  I  am  saying — to  save 
Eveline  from  all  the  sordid  wretchedness  with 
this  miserable  man.  As  it  is,  I  can  do  noth- 
ing. And,  of  course,  it  is  pleasant  to  have 
one's  right  hand  where  it  ought  to  be.  I  do 
not  imagine  for  a  moment,  as  Eveline  would, 
that  I  should  enjoy  going  about  with  a 
stump." 

"  You  think  this  man  will  be  unkind  to 
her?  " 

"  I  think  he  understands  she  is  an  heiress. 


HER   MEMORY. 


147 


But  even  were  matters  entirely  different " 

she  paused,  looking  anxiously  at  Anthony, 
struggled  to  say  something,  and  hesitated, 
manifestly  at  war  with  herself. 

"  Anthony,"  she  said  softly,  and  then, 
pouring  forth  her  words,  "  you  must  let  me 
speak!  You  mustn't  mind  for  once.  You've 
got  a  little  girl;  I  know  about  her.  I've  been 
wanting  to  say  this  for  ever  so  long,  only  we 
never  met.  And  perhaps  I  should  never  have 
dared.  But  I  wanted  to  say,  don't,  don't  let 
her  grow  up  different.  Send  her  back  among 
her  own  people.  Don't  want  her  to  be  pe- 
culiar, better,  queer.  It's  no  use  talking, 
women  must  be  *  usual,'  as  Eveline  so  scorn- 
fully says.  They  must  have  natural  surround- 
ings, into  which  they  naturally  fit.  God  pity 
the  woman  who  is  superior  to  her  eniouragej* 
She  waited  for  Anthony  to  protest,  but  he 
said  nothing. 

"  It's  my  fault  about  Eveline.  When  I 
married,  I  left  her  with  an  aunt  in  the  country 


i4g  HER   MEMORY. 

— pure  selfishness;  I  was  barely  twenty;  I 
didn't  want  to  be  bored.  Let  her  stay  where 
she  was.  The  aunt  was  prim,  old-maidish, 
with  a  lot  of  ideas  and  fads — very  good,  I 
daresay:  Carlyle's  clothes — rubbish,  hero- 
worship,  that  sort  of  thing.  Eveline  believes 
things  are  not  what  they  seem.  And  her  aunt 
called  her  Eva;  and  when  we  sent  for  her  up 
to  London,  it  was  too  late."  Lady  Mary's 
voice  almost  broke  down  under  the  weight  of 
her  self-reproach. 

Anthony  stood  silent  in  the  dimly-lighted 
room;  the  atmosphere  of  gloom  hung  over- 
powering, like  a  thundercloud.  At  last  he 
said,  thickly: 

"  What  do  you  want  me  to  do  with  Mar- 
gie? " 

"  I  have  no  right  to  want  anything.  But, 
if  she  were  my  child,  I  would  return  with  her 
to  my  own  people,  to  my  own  home.  I  would 
let  her  grow  up  among  surroundings  she  can 
retain  through  life,  with  child  friends,  who  will 


HER  MEMORY.  j^g 

think  and  grow  up  as  she  does.  All  this  is 
exotic,  forcing-house  business.  You  can  get 
plants  to  turn  white,  can't  you,  by  keeping 
them  in  the  dark?  But  the  world  is  all 
colours,  like  healthy  flowers.  Look  at  Eve- 
line— she  doesn't  believe  in  money  ;  she 
doesn't  believe  in  rank;  she  doesn't  believe 
in  any  of  the  contemptible  things  we  all  be- 
lieve in!  " 

Again  she  turned  on  him  with  that  sud- 
den recoil  of  hers.  "  Do  you  believe  in  them? 
Do  I?  Yes,  as  idols,  not  as  gods;  all  the  dif- 
ference lies  there!  " 

"  I  can't  go  back,"  he  stammered. 

She  held  out  her  hand.  "  Forgive  me, 
Anthony,"  she  said;  *'  I  have  no  right  to  take 
any  interest  in  your  daughter.  Or  in  you? 
But  to-night,  amid  my  own  scandal  and  mis- 
ery, I  can't  help  speaking  out.  Eveline  is  go- 
ing to  make  herself  wretched  with  a  good-for- 
nothing  scamp,  because  the  scamp  '  loves  the 
beautiful.'    Send  Margie  to  Mrs.  Fosby  for  a 


150  HER  MEMORY. 

little.  Mrs.  Fosby  is  a  much  better  woman 
than  you  think.  And  you  are  treating  her 
very  badly." 

He  pressed  the  proffered  hand,  and  went 
away  home. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

He  locked  himself  into  the  little  inner 
room — the  locking  was  superfluous — and  all 
that  night,  through  the  silence,  he  painted, 
he  painted. 

In  the  morning,  when  he  came  out,  his 
face  was  discomposed.  He  noticed  this, 
grimly,  too  modern  not  to  wash  and  trim 
himself  before  a  toilet-glass. 

On  the  stairs  he  met  Margie,  coming  up  to 
greet  him. 

"  There^s  a  great  stain  on  your  frock,"  he 
said. 

"  Why,  papa,  it's  been  there  a  long  time. 
Miss  Gray  said  it  wouldn't  show." 

At  breakfast,  he  remarked  the  governess's 

manners,  as  he  had  often  done.     They  were 

151 


152  HER   MEMORY. 

very  good;  there  was  nothing  you  could  ex- 
actly complain  of. 

"  Margie,  you  are  twelve,"  he  said  sud- 
denly. 

The  child  laughed. 

"  Of  course,  papa,"  she  said.  "  How  fun- 
ny!   You  know  I  am." 

"  Margaret  is  tall  for  her  age,"  remarked 
Miss  Gray  nervously. 

"  It  is  a  very  considerable  age,"  said  An- 
thony.    And  Margie  laughed  again. 

That  afternoon  they  took  their  usual 
walk  together,  the  pair  of  them.  They  went 
up  to  the  Piazzale  Michelangiolo,  where  the 
bronze  David  stands.  All  the  way  up 
the  father  talked  of  summer  flowers,  but 
his  thoughts  were  of  one  thing  only,  and 
he  came  to  that  one  thing  as  they  stood 
by  the  terrace  parapet,  overlooking  the 
whole  panorama  of  Florence,  enjoying  for 
the  hundredth  time  a  sight  too  beautiful  for 
words. 


HER   MEMORY.  153 

"  You  like  living  in  Florence,  don't  you, 
Margie?  " 

"  Yes,  papa,"  said  Margie  listlessly,  for 
she  was  hot,  and  engrossed  in  a  distant  boy 
with  a  ball. 

"  We  shall  be  going  to  the  hills  next 
month.  Italy  is  a  beautiful  country.  You 
wouldn't  like  to  live  anywhere  but  in  Italy, 
would  you?  " 

"  I  should  like  to  live  in  England,"  said 
Margie,  watching  the  ball. 

Anthony  started,  as  if  she  had  stung  him. 

After  a  moment,  he  said,  "  Why?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  should  like  to. 
Miss  Gray  would  like  to.  She  says  England's 
beautiful,  too." 

"  England's  all  soot,"  said  Anthony  wild- 
ly. "  If  you  sit  down  on  the  grass,  you  get 
up  with  a  great  black  stain.  You  don't  re- 
member England,  Margie.  You  can't  imagine 
what  the  north  is  like.  The  south  is  God's 
smile,  and  the  north  is  God's  frown!  " 


154  HER   MEMORY. 

"  That  boy  throws  his  ball  very  badly," 
replied  Margie.  "  Miss  Gray  says  Italian 
boys  are  all  muffs.  Her  nephew's  the  best 
football  player  in  his  school;  he  broke  his  arm 
the  other  day  playing  football.  When  you 
were  young,  papa,  did  you  play  Association 
or  Rugby? " 

"  Cricket  was  more  in  my  line,  Margie." 

Margie  looked  supercilious. 

"  I  played  in  my  college  eleven,"  said  An- 
thony, bashfully. 

"Oh!"  said  Margie.  "Do  you  know, 
papa,  I  don't  understand.  Miss  Gray  says 
I'm  not  like  regular  children." 

"Regular  children!"  ejaculated  Anthony 
between  his  teeth. 

"  I  thought  England  was  quite  jolly,"  con- 
tinued Margie.  "  Miss  Gray  thinks  it  beauti- 
ful. She's  got  some  verses,  she  says,  about 
it,    very    pretty.      Shall    I    repeat    them    to 


you? 


"  If  you  like." 


HER   MEMORY.  155 

Margie  leant  against  the  parapet,  with  the 
wide  splendours  of  Fiesole  and  Arno  in  the 
sun-blaze  before  her — 

"Christmas  in  England  now. 
The  holly's  berries  red 
With  merry  mistletoe  adorn 
The  peasant's  peaceful  shed." 

"  It  isn't  Christmas  now,  at  any  rate!  "  ex- 
claimed Anthony. 

"  No,  papa,  but  does  that  matter?  " 

"  I  think  it  does.  And,  surely,  it's  *  holly 
berries.'  " 

"  Miss  Gray  always  says  '  holly's  ber- 
ries,' "  answered  Margie,  piqued. 

"  No  creature  with  any  poetic  sense  would 
say  *  holly's  berries  '  there." 

The  fundamental  trait  of  Margie  Stollard's 
whole  nature  was  loyalty.  It  had  been  ab- 
normally developed.    She  stopped  short. 

"  Did  mamma  not  like  England? "  she 
presently  asked,  naturally  reverting  to  the 
subject  they  always  had  in  common. 


156  HER   MEMORY. 

"  Yes,  certainly,  child.  And  so  do  I,  of 
course — we  all  love  our  country.  I  was 
speaking  of  climate." 

"  And  did  mamma  never  sit  on  the 
grass?  " 

"  Good  heavens,  Margie,  you  are  too  hor- 
ribly matter-of-fact!  I  cannot  comprehend 
from  whom  you  get  that  curious  persistency. 
Your  mother  was  imaginative,  fanciful,  even 
sentimental." 

"  I  should  like  to  be  all  that  mamma  was," 
said  Margaret  gravely. 

No  girl  under  twenty — no  woman,  what- 
ever her  age — however  she  may  despise  sen- 
timent, likes  being  told  she  is  not  senti- 
mental. 

"  What  do  you  mean  exactly,  papa?  Miss 
Gray  always  says  she  appreciates  sentiment. 
That's  what  she  objects  to  in  the  Madonnas; 
she  says  there's  no  sentiment  in  them.  She 
likes  pictures  with  plenty  of  sentiment,  she 
says — '  The  Huguenot '  in  the  schoolroom, 


HER   MEMORY.  157 

for  instance.  That,  she  says,  has  senti- 
ment." 

"  Well,  I  too  admire  '  The  Huguenot '  in 
its  way." 

"  And  '  The  Derby  Day  '  and  '  The  Rail- 
way Station  '  she's  always  talking  about.  Do 
you  know  '  The  Railway  Station,'  papa?  She 
says  that's  full  of  sentiment." 

"*The  Railway  Station'?  It's  the  one 
fault  I  find  with  Florence,  child.  In  Flor- 
ence, at  any  rate,  there  ought  to  be  no  rail- 
way stations.  Look  at  that  shadow  falling 
straight  across  the  Ponte  alle  Grazie." 

"  But  Miss  Gray  means " 

"  My  dear  child,  do  leave  off  discuss- 
ing Miss  Gray.  We  seem  to  have  talked 
more  about  her  during  this  hour  than 
during  all  the  years  she  has  been  with 
us." 

Thus  snubbed,  Margie  turned  to  the  land- 
scape, and  they  walked  away,  each  busy  with 

their  own  reflections.     The  Piazzale  Galileo 
zi 


158  HER  MEMORY. 

had  been  reached  before  Anthony  broke  the 
silence. 

"  Can  Miss  Gray  see  the  difference,  I  won- 
der, between  a  '  Madonna'  by  BotticelH,  and  a 
'  Madonna  '  of  Murillo's?  "  he  said. 

Margie  looked  up  in  indignant  astonish- 
ment, but  she  only  replied,  "  I  don't  know. 
They  look  very  different,  papa." 

"  After  all,  what  does  it  matter?  She  can 
distinguish  between  Rugby  and  Association." 

"  Yes,  papa.  Do  you  know,  I  think  As- 
sociation's best." 

"  The  ancient  Greeks  could  do  both,  Mar- 
gie. But  then,  they  were  fine  fellows.  Fancy 
sculpting  the  Apoxyomenos  after  having 
beaten  him  in  a  race." 

*'  I  thought  the  Apoxyomenos  had  been 
wrestling,  papa?  " 

Anthony  heaved  a  plaintive  sigh. 

"  You  remember  my  jacket  that  I  tore  in 
Rome? "  continued  Margie.  "  Miss  Gray 
says  I  shall  have  to  get  a  new  one." 


HER   MEMORY.  159 

Anthony  stopped  in  the  middle  of  the  hill- 
side road,  and,  bending,  kissed  her. 

That  evening  he  sought  a  little  talk  with 
Miss  Girling,  the  landlady's  spinster  niece, 
who  helped  her  in  the  housekeeping.  Usu- 
ally he  avoided  Miss  Girling  as  much  as  he 
civilly  could,  simply  because  she  bored  him, 
for  he  was  unaware  that  half-a-dozen  cour- 
teous words  on  his  part  caused  much  flutter 
and  speculation  in  a  heart  essentially  youthful 
and  silly,  full  of  vague  aspirations  sufficiently 
sentimental  to  meet  any  demand. 

"  Indeed,  Margaret  is  the  sweetest  child," 
said  Miss  Girling. 

"  And  well  developed,  I  think,  for  her 
age?" 

"  She  might  be  stronger,"  said  Miss  Girl- 
ing. 

"  I  mean  intellectually,"  explained  the 
father,  with  a  quick  shadow  across  his 
face. 


l6o  HER  MEMORY. 

"  Indeed,  she  knows  twice  as  much  as  I 
did  when  I  was  her  age,  and  about  all  sorts 
of  things.  And  yet  I  had  the  very  best  educa- 
tion that  the  very  best  academy  in  Clapham 
could  give — Miss  Grigson's  the  name  was — 
and  I  had  all  the  extras." 

**  I  am  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,"  replied 
Anthony,  keeping  to  the  point  which  was  of 
interest  to  him. 

**  There  are  subjects,  of  course,"  continued 
Miss  Girling,  "  which  can  be  learnt  nowhere 
as  they  are  learnt  in  England.  Deportment, 
for  instance " 

"  You  think  Margie  is  deficient  in  deport- 
ment? " 

"  Oh,  no,  I  should  never  wish  to  say  that. 
The  poor  motherless  dear!  " 

*'  What  is  deportment.  Miss  Girling?  " 

"  La,  Mr.  Stollard,  you  know  better  than 
I!  For  shame!  The  dear  child  is  altogether 
sweet,  yet  she  cannot  but  miss  a  lady-mother's 
refining  influence,  the  daily  contact  with  a 


HER  MEMORY.  i6i 

gentlewoman  born."  Miss  Girling  dropped 
her  eyelids. 

"  You  object  to  Miss  Gray?  " 

*'I  object?  Really,  Mr.  Stollard,  you 
make  one  say  such  things,  I  am  almost  afraid 
to  talk  to  you.  I  object?  No,  indeed.  The 
idea!  Miss  Gray  is  a  very  superior  person. 
Her  father  was  in  trade.  Her  brother  is,  I  be- 
lieve, a  curate  in  the  Church  of  England. 
You  could  not  have  selected  a  more  estimable 
nursery-governess." 

"  But  it  is  I  who  have  educated  Margie." 

"  She  has,  indeed,  had  a  teacher  such  as 
few  children  could  dream  of.  All  that  she 
now  requires  to  render  her  the  most  charming 
of  girls  is  a  gentlewoman's  daily  influence,  an 
English  lady's  constant  intercourse,  the  at- 
mosphere of  a  cultured  English  home." 

Anthony  started  up,  and  held  out  his  hand 
to  Miss  Girling. 

"  Thank  you!  "  he  exclaimed.  "  I  am  so 
much  obliged  to  you.    She  shall  have  it." 


l62  HER   MEMORY. 

Miss  Girling  blushed,  and  coughed. 

"  You  need  not  be  distressed  about  Miss 
Gray,"  she  said.  "  I  know  that  she  is  only 
waiting  for  an  opportunity  to  take  a  step 
from  which  she  has  long  shrunk  in  vain. 
She  believes  it  her  duty  to  go  and  keep 
house  for  her  brother,  and  I  am  sure  she 
is  right." 

"  Is  it  possible? "  exclaimed  Anthony, 
overwhelmed  by  the  pressure  of  fate. 

"  The  brother  is  a  widower,  as  you  are 
probably  aware.  He  has  seven  children. 
And  what  is  home  without  a  mother?  " 

"  In  a  year  he  will  marry  again,"  said  An- 
thony, bitterly. 

"  Miss  Gray  will  grudge  no  one  his  happi- 
ness. She  was  saying  to  me  only  the  other 
day  that  it  was  the  best  thing  he,  or  any  other 
widower,  could  do.  Fm  sure  I  beg  your  par- 
don,  Mr.   Stollard — I Gracious,  who's 

there?  Si,  si,  Cenza,  vengo.  These  Italian 
servants  never  know  how  to  behave.     But  I 


HER   MEMORY.  163 

like  Italy — at  least,  for  the  winter.  I  quite 
sympathise  with  your  feeling  about  Italy.'* 

"  Thank  you.  Do  you  know  if  the  post 
has  come  in?  " 

"  I  will  inquire,"  said  Miss  Girling,  a  little 
crestfallen. 

A  few  minutes  later,  pale,  little  Miss  Gray 
brought  up  his  letters. 

"  Might  I  speak  to  you,  sir,  for  a  mo- 
ment? "  she  asked,  in  her  timid  way,  perpetu- 
ally dreading  a  liberty  she  would  never  have 
ventured  to  take.  "  I  have  felt,  for  a  long 
time,  that  it  had  become  my  duty  to  do  so, 
but  the  courage  was  wanting."  She  broke 
down  already,  with  easy  tears.  "  Margaret  is 
twelve  years  old,  as  you  remarked  this  morn- 
ing. Do  you  not  think,  Mr.  Stollard,  it  is 
time  some  more — efficient  companion  should 
take  my  place?  " 

"  I  shall  be  very  sorry  to  lose  you,"  an- 
swered Anthony,  expectantly. 


164  HER   MEMORY. 

She  noted  the  "  shall." 

"  Is  there  no  other  reason  for  your  go- 
ing? ''  he  added. 

"  None  other  but  dear  Margaret*s  welfare. 
I  was  not  speaking  of  immediate  departure. 
In  the  first  place,  I  must  consider  your  con- 


venience." 


"  I  had  understood  from  Miss  Girling  that 
you  were  anxious  to  join  your  brother  Alfred 
— the  poor  fellow  who  lost  his  wife  last  year." 

"  Miss  Girling! "  cried  the  governess. 
"  Oh!  the — landlady's  niece  is  not  acquainted 
with  my  private  affairs!  I  have  spoken  with 
her,  of  course,  about  my  poor  brother's  be- 
reavement, as  I  have  with  you,  Mr.  Stollard. 
But  in  all  matters  I  shall  be  guided  by  your 
kind  and  generous  advice."  Miss  Gray  cried 
a  little,  quietly.  "  You  have  always  been  to 
me  like  a — like  a  father,"  said  poor,  little  Miss 
Gray.  She  hoped  for  a  pension  or  something, 
she  hardly  knew  what. 

"  I  must  see  about  it,"  he  said,  taking  up 


HER   MEMORY.  165 

his  letters  as  a  form  of  dismissal.  He  noticed 
that  the  top  one  was  from  Mrs.  Fosby. 
"  Accipio  omen,"  he  said  to  himself.  "  If  she 
bothers  about  the  child's  education,  I  sha'n't 
send  her.  Voila!  "  He  tore  open  the  letter; 
it  was  full  of  gossip,  eager  inquiry,  affection- 
ate messages — no  more. 

He  carried  up  to  Miss  Gray  a  couple  of 
illustrated  papers,  unopened.  "  You  and  Mar- 
gie had  better  make  ready  to  start  for  Eng- 
land next  week,"  he  said.  "  I  may  have  an 
early  opportunity  of  sending  you.  She  would 
go  to  her  grandmother;  you  could  stay  with 
her  just  at  first.    I  shall  remain  here." 

He  returned  to  his  studio.  "  Good  God, 
what  a  life!  "  he  said  aloud,  and  locked  himself 
in  the  inner  room,  and  painted. 


CHAPTER   X. 

In  less  than  a  fortnight  Margie  started  for 
England,  accompanied  by  Miss  Gray,  and  ac- 
companying Lady  Mary.  Eveline  was  also  of 
the  party;  she  had  compromised  herself  quite 
sufificiently,  and  was  content.  When  her 
painter  felt  convalescent,  he  would  come  over 
to  London  and  marry  her.  "  Without  a  shil- 
ling," said  Lady  Mary. 

"  Oh,  yes,  he  quite  understands  that;  he 
doesn't  mind,"  replied  Eveline. 

Miss  Gray  had  taken  tearful  leave  of  dear 
Florence,  and  also  of  dear  Miss  Girling  and 
kind  Mr.  Stollard.  In  parting  she  had  felt  it 
her  sacred,  solemn  duty,  much  against  her  in- 
clination, to  say  to  that  kind  good  blind 
man  :    "  Beware   of   Miss    Girling,"    thereby 

i66 


HER   MEMORY.  167 

leaving  a  vague  impression  on  Anthony's 
mind  that  Miss  Girling  overcharged  for 
extras. 

The  loneHness  which  settled  upon  him 
after  Margie's  departure  exceeded  all  that,  in 
his  lonely  life,  he  could  have  imagined  pos- 
sible. Accordingly  he  reproached  himself  for 
selfishness  in  his  intercourse  with  the  child. 
Yet  her  presence  had  not  always  been  a 
solace;  often  she  had  pressed  upon  him  as  a 
suffocating  burden,  with  her  unintermittent 
questionings,  her  ceaseless  "  Papa!  "  Not  the 
sweetest  of  fathers  can  endure  unmitigated 
child. 

And  large  parts  of  his  day  remained  sud- 
denly empty,  now  that  the  hours  of  teaching 
fell  away  from  it.  Never  had  child  been  so 
delightfully  instructed  as  Margie — the  story 
of  the  world  and  those  who  dwell  in  it  had 
taken  shape  before  her  admiring  eyes  in  a 
slow  development  of  illustrations;  and  if  the 
picture  were  not   at   once   forthcoming,   the 


l68  HER  MEMORY. 

teacher's  clever  fingers  quickly  sketched  the 
scene.  By  the  time  the  girl  was  ten  years  old, 
she  could  have  explained  to  you  the  style  of 
any  building  she  passed  in  the  streets  (suppos- 
ing it  had  a  style);  would  have  stared  in  still 
amazement,  had  you  said  a  Louis  XIV  cabi- 
net was  Louis  XV;  would  have  told  you 
stories  by  the  hour,  had  you  desired  it,  out  of 
Shakespeare,  or  Herodotus,  or  the  Morte 
d' Arthur;  or  have  shown  you  engravings, 
with  explanatory  comments,  of  red  Peruvians 
or  solemn  Hindoos.  A  cheerful  child,  that 
had  learnt  all  this  without  any  trouble  of 
learning,  playing  through  the  thorny  thickets 
by  her  father's  side.  "  To  grow  up  like  mam- 
ma. To  be  good  some  day  like  mamma,"  that 
was  Margie  Stollard's  ideal,  "  so  that  papa 
might  love  her,  as  he  loved,  and  still  loves 
mamma." 

Her  letters  now  poured  in  from  England, 
full  of  varied  delight.  A  hundred  home-en- 
joyments, long  discussed  with  Miss  Gray,  un- 


HER   MEMORY.  169 

expectedly  lay  in  her  lap.  She  was  taken  to 
Thurdles,  and  everybody  spoilt  her;  she  vis- 
ited Nurse  Lintot,  and  the  old  woman  rose  up 
and  blessed  her;  Uncle  Henry,  she  wrote,  was 
most  kind;  Mrs.  Fosby  she  had  evidently 
pleased.  Anthony,  it  must  be  owned,  found 
these  rippling  letters  rather  difficult  to  swal- 
low; they  ran  over.  With  scorn  of  his  own 
selfishness  he  checked  a  grimace.  He  was 
glad  the  child  should  enjoy  herself,  even  over 
yonder. 

But  he  painted  all  the  better  when  the  time 
approached  for  her  return.  "  Why,  he's  look- 
ing much  more  cheerful,"  said  good-natured 
Mrs.  Thomson.  During  the  last  fortnight  he 
painted  desperately,  day  and  night.  "  One 
would  think  he  had  to  do  it,"  remarked  Miss 
Girling,  who  felt  about  the  mysterious  cham- 
ber as  Blue  Beard's  consort  must  have  felt, 
though,  alas!  she  was  devoid  of  Mrs.  Blue 
Beard's  claims  to  cross  the  threshold.  Miss 
Girling  found  the  lodger  disappointing.    "  Of 


1^0  HER   MEMORY. 

course,  I  can  quite  understand  a  gentleman 
painting  to  amuse  himself,"  said  this  resident 
in  Florence. 

When  Margie,  returning  towards  the  end 
of  the  autumn,  fell  into  her  father's  arms  at 
the  railway  station,  he  believed  that  the  blank 
in  his  life  had  been  filled.  Mrs.  Fosby  came 
with  her;  the  old  lady  had  not  seen  her  son- 
in-law  since  his  flight  from  Thurdles,  on  that 
summer  morning.  Both  of  them  were  glad  to 
let  Margie  chatter  on,  of  anything  and  every- 
thing, as  long  as  it  was  unimportant,  as  long 
as  they  could  listen,  and  ask  questions  and 
take  an  interest,  avoiding  one  another's  eyes. 
Through  the  self-created  ordeal  of  this  meet- 
ing, Margie's  flow  of  new  experiences  now 
carried  them  triumphantly. 

"  Look,  Margie,  at  the  della  Robbias,'' 
said  Anthony,  as  they  drove  past  the  Loggia 
di  San  Paolo;  he  did  not  trouble  Mrs.  Fosby 
to  look  at  della  Robbias.  "  Child,  aren't  you 
glad  to  be  in  Florence  again?  " 


HER   MEMORY.  171 

"Oh,  yes,  beautiful  Florence!"  said  the 
girl.  "  But,  papa,  I  was  telling  you  about  the 
rector^s  daughters  who  lived  close  to  grand- 
mamma.'* He  had  to  listen  to  England,  Eng- 
land, Thurdles,  Mrs.  Fosby's  circle  and  sur- 
roundings, the  worship  of  King  Snob.  The 
old  lady  said  but  little,  except  occasionally  to 
correct  a  misconception.  "  The  *  Duchess,' 
my  dear!  People  don't  say  Lady  Dorrisford." 
At  that  moment  she  certainly  looked  re- 
proachfully towards  Anthony,  who  tried 
hard  not  to  feel  ashamed.  He  trembled 
to  think  of  all  possible  shortcomings.  He 
was  relieved  when,  immediately  after  din- 
ner, she  got  up  and  left  him  alone  with  the 
child. 

"  Papa,  there's  a  thing  I  want  to  ask 
you,"  began  Margie  immediately,  with  nerv- 
ous rapidity  of  speech;  "  I  didn't  want  to  write 
about  it.  Grandmamma  has  quantities  of 
things,  you  know,  that  belonged  to  mamma, 
relics  of  when  she  was  a  baby,  and  when  she 


1/2 


HER   MEMORY. 


was  as  old  as  I  am — her  first  shoes,  and  her 
last  pinafore,  and  all  the  works  she  made  for 
birthdays,  and " 

"Your  grandmother!"  exclaimed  An- 
thony, amazed. 

"  Yes  " — the  girl  looked  surprised.  "  She 
says  that  I  shall  have  them  all  some  day.  I — 
I  don't  mean  when  she  dies — dear  granny! 
And  what  I  wanted  to  say  was,  she  gave  me 
—this!  " 

From  under  her  frock  the  child  drew  a 
plain  gold  locket,  with  gold  monogram  and 
thin  gold  chain.  She  pressed  the  spring. 
"  Grandmamma  thinks  this  is  very  like,"  she 
said. 

Anthony  glanced  down  on  a  miniature 
photo  of  his  wife,  a  simpering,  grey  thing, 
with  the  absurd  head-dress  of  her  teens. 

"  There  are  any  number  of  portraits  at 
grandmamma's,"  said  Margie.  "  She  was  so 
astonished  to  find  I  had  never  seen  one  of 
them.     But  I  explained  to  her,  you  did  not 


HER   MEMORY.  173 

like  portraits.  Papa  " — Margie's  voice  grew 
imploring — "  is  this  like?  " 

"  Come  with  me/'  he  answered.  He  led 
the  way,  and  she  followed,  upstairs  to  the 
studio.  He  struck  a  match,  and,  without 
speaking,  went  straight  to  the  inner  door. 
Margie's  heart  throbbed.  He  motioned  her 
to  accompany  him.  Hurriedly  he  lighted  a 
great  lamp,  that  blazed  overhead.  The  child 
stood  in  the  small  chamber  and  looked. 

The  walls  were  hung  with  a  smooth  grey 
texture  like  clouds;  the  whole  room  was  bare, 
but  for  one  picture,  looming  large.  The  child 
trembled  with  emotion.  From  grey  clouds, 
in  strange  paleness  of  colouring,  a  white  fig- 
ure bent  forward,  seraphic,  yet  humanly  ideal- 
ised— a  denizen  of  heaven,  but  a  daughter  of 
earth.  All  the  warmth  of  the  picture  con- 
centred in  the  eyes;  and  these  were  gazing  at 
Margie.  The  locket,  with  the  mother's  dull 
effigy,  beat  on  the  daughter's  breast. 

"And  that  was  mamma,"  said  Margie  in  a 
12 


174  HER   MEMORY. 

whisper.  She  stood  immovable  for  many- 
minutes.  Anthony  watched  her.  Then  they 
went  out  of  the  Httle  room  together. 

"  Mops,"  said  the  father,  using  the  pet 
name  he  had  given  her  at  Thurdles,  "  we  will 
keep  that  picture  to  ourselves,  you  and  L 
Nobody  else  shall  ever  see  it.  And  now  you 
must  go  to  bed.    You  are  tired." 

He  found  Mrs.  Fosby  waiting  for  him  in 
the  sitting-room.  "Anthony,"  she  said  in  an 
agitated  voice,  "  pray  be  seated;  I  have  some- 
thing of  importance  to  communicate." 

Anthony  did  as  he  was  told.  Important 
statements  should  be  made  without  prepara- 
tion, he  thought. 

"  Your  brother  Henry,  as  you  are  aware, 
is  unwell,"  said  Mrs.  Fosby,  dropping  a 
stitch. 

"  No  wonder,  with  his  life,  and  in  that  cli- 
mate! "  replied  Anthony  aggressively;  he  was 
speculating  where  all  the  hideous  articles  were 
which  Mrs.  Fosby  had  remorselessly  manu- 


HER   MEMORY.  175 

factured  in  the  last  few  years.  The  old  lady 
let  the  attack  pass  unnoticed.  "  But  Henry 
was  always  fussy,"  added  Anthony.  "  I  dare- 
say it's  nothing  much." 

"  He  is  very  ill,"  replied  Mrs.  Fosby, 
studying  her  work,  yet  dropping  more 
stitches.    "  He  is  going  to  die." 

"  My  God,  what  do  you  mean? "  ex- 
claimed Anthony  thickly. 

"  He  has  been  very  ill  for  a  long  time. 
Much  more  so  than  he  chose  to  let  anyone 
know.  But  his  energy  and  his  sense  of " — 
Mrs.  Fosby's  eyes  were  fixed  on  her  knitting 
— "  of  duty  are  immense.  However,  at  last 
he  has  had  to  give  in.  The  doctors  insist  on 
his  leaving  England.  He  is  coming  to  the 
Riviera." 

"  To  recover?  "  exclaimed  Anthony  pas- 
sionately. 

"  No— to  die." 

Anthony  sat  with  his  face  behind  his 
hands.  When  at  last  he  looked  up,  ''  Henry!  " 


i;6  HER   MEMORY. 

he  said  once.  At  the  sound  of  his  voice  the 
tears  gathered  behind  Mrs.  Fosby's  specta- 
cles. She  was  vexed  with  her  son-in-law,  the 
strange  creature;  sorry  for  him,  certainly,  but 
troubled  by  his  eccentric  way  of  taking  things. 
Had  she,  then,  not  loved  her  daughter,  she 
who,  every  Tuesday  fortnight,  in  a  room  filled 
with  portraits  and  other  mementos,  held  a 
meeting  of  the  Dorcas  Society  Margaret  had 
started  as  a  girl?  It  was  a  very  nice  society; 
the  Hon.  Mrs.  Boring  belonged  to  it.  Well, 
she,  Mrs.  Fosby,  had  taken  up  the  meetings 
three  weeks  after  Margaret's  death. 

She  now^  spoke  not  a  word  of  reproach 
about  Anthony's  neglect  of  his  brother — of 
his  brother? — of  everything.  She  had  made 
up  her  mind,  with  such  vast  cause  of  reproof, 
to  be  terribly  silent.  His  sorrow  at  the  bad 
news  greatly  touched  her,  but  then,  she  re- 
membered, he  was  always  demonstrative,  not 
to  say  sentimental. 

"  One  of  my  reasons  for  accompanying 


HER   MEMORY.  177 

Margie  was  that  I  might  tell  you  this,"  she 
began  presently;  ''  I  promised  your  brother 
to  do  so.  He  is  cruelly  alone.  His  servant  is 
coming  out  with  him,  Frangois.  It  is  a  bless- 
ing now  that  he  has  a  French  servant,  though 
I  do  not  approve  of  foreign  domestics  my- 
self." 

"  When  is  he  coming?  "  asked  Anthony. 

"  In  ten  days  or  a  fortnight." 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Anthony  timidly, 
"  whether — whether  he  would  like  us  to  go 
to  him?  " 

Mrs.  Fosby  raised  a  pair  of  pleased  eyes  to 
her  son-in-law's  face. 

"  I  know  that  he  desires  it  above  all 
things,"  she  said.  "  Anthony,  he  has  of 
course  been  compelled  to  send  in  his  resig- 
nation." 

"  Poor,  poor  fellow,"  said  Anthony. 

"  You  will  see  it  in  the  papers  in  a  day  or 
two.     What  papers  have  you  here?  " 

"  Oh — all,"      replied     Anthony      hastily. 


1^8  HER   MEMORY. 

*'  Miss  Girling,  the  landlady's  niece,  reads  the 
Queen."  Mrs.  Fosby  again  looked  reproach- 
ful. "  I  think,"  he  continued,  ''  I  had  better 
go  upstairs  to  my  room.  I — your  sad  tidings 
have  rather  disturbed  me.  Perhaps  we  had 
better  leave  Florence  immediately.  Good- 
night.   Poor  Harry!    Good-night." 

"  Yes,  Margie,  it  is  the  last  glimpse,"  said 
Anthony.  They  were  standing  under  Giotto's 
tower  in  the  full  midday  movement  of  the 
city.  "  But  perhaps  we  shall  come  back,  you 
know." 

"  No,  we  shall  never  come  back,"  an- 
swered Margie. 

"What  do  you  mean,  child?"  exclaimed 
her  father  uncomfortably.  "  How  can  you 
tell?  " 

"  I  don't  quite  know  what  I  mean,  papa. 
Of  course  we  may  come  back  to  Florence. 
But  it  won't  be  coming  back  to  this;  not  to 
Miss   Girling  and   Miss   Gray,   for   instance, 


HER   MEMORY.  jyg 

though  I  don't  mean  that  either.  I  mean  I 
don't  know;  but  things  never  come  back,  do 
they?    We  shall  never  be  the  same  again." 

"  No  ;  for  one  thing,  you  will  grow 
older." 

She  heaved  a  sigh.  "  Yes,  I  suppose  one 
must,"  she  said.    And  they  both  laughed. 

"  And  things  happen  to  one,  papa,  and 
make  one  different.  My  going  to  England, 
for  instance.  I  can't  be  the  same  as  before  I 
went." 

"  What  difference  has  that  made? "  he 
asked,  a  little  anxiously. 

"  I  don't  know.  I  couldn't  possibly  ex- 
plain." 

"  Tell  me  you  are  happy,  Margie.  You 
have  been  happy  here  in  Florence,  have  you 
not?  All  I  care  about  is  that  you  should  be 
happy,  dear." 

"  Of  course  I'm  happy  with  you,  papa." 

"  What  would  you  like?  Tell  me  what 
you  would  like.    If  I  can  I  will  get  it  for  you. 


l8o  HER   MEMORY. 

All  I  care  about  is  that  you  should  be  happy, 
dear."  His  voice  was  tremulous  with  pas- 
sion. 

Margie  looked  straight  in  front  of  her. 
"  I  don't  want  anything,  thank  you,  papa," 
she  said,  "  except  for  you  to  love  me  awfully. 
Almost  as  much  as  you  loved  mamma." 

He  stood  silent  by  her  side  for  some  time. 
She  was  almost  afraid  she  had  offended  him. 
At  last  he  said  in  a  very  low  voice,  "  You  are 
like  your  mother  in  many  things.  It  is  time 
that  we  went." 


CHAPTER  XL 

At  the  Hotel  des  Milords  et  des  Princes, 
amongst  the  lemon  groves  of  Mentone,  on 
the  stucco  terrace  with  its  neat  gravel  walk 
and  vases  of  geraniums,  its  carefully  kept  bor- 
ders and  yellow-striped  aloes,  under  blue  sky 
and  red  parasols  and  smart  awnings — the 
usual  laughter  and  coughing,  play,  pleasure, 
and  pain!  Slow  distraction,  and  sudden 
death.  All  just  as  it  had  been  four  years  ago; 
just  as  it  goes  on  for  ever,  think  we,  for  whom 
it  goes  on  till  it  stops. 

Sir    Henry    Stollard    sat    on    the    terrace 

watching  the  glitter  of  the  sea.    His  face  was 

pale,  and  a  trifle  parchmenty;  his  dress  was 

scrupulously  trim  and  proper;  his  look  was 

proper  also,  and  immeasurably  sad. 

Anthony  sat  beside  him  drawing  circles  in 

i8i 


1 82  HER   MEMORY. 

the  sand.  That  had  been  his  occupation  now 
for  several  weeks.  The  circles  were  admi- 
rably even. 

"  Isn't  it  a  beautiful  day?  "  said  Anthony. 
"  What  a  season  we're  having!  Such  weather 
as  this  must  do  you  lots  of  good." 

"  Oh,  yes,  lots,"  said  Sir  Henry.  ''  The 
weather  is  beautiful.  I  wish  Frangois  would 
bring  me  those  pills." 

''  He's  not  due  for  five  minutes  yet,"  said 
Anthony,  consulting  his  watch.  "  It  takes 
one  at  least  half  an  hour  to  get  down  to  the 
Pharmacie  Centrale  and  back." 

"  He  is  an  excellent  servant,"  said  Sir 
Henry;  "  it  would  be  madness  to  complain  of 
Frangois." 

"  Yes,  you  seem  to  get  on  first-rate.  It 
rather  amuses  me  to  see  you  with  a  French 
valet,  you  who  are  the  most  English  of  Eng- 
lishmen." 

''  Do  I  strike  you  as  the  most  English  of 
Englishmen? "     said     Sir     Henry     proudly. 


HER   MEMORY. 


183. 


"  Well,  I  suppose  we  are  all  of  us  more  com- 
plicated creatures  than  we  appear.  You  are 
very  complicated,  Anthony." 

"  Oh,  I  am  cosmopolitan,"  said  Anthony. 
"  I  am  kaleidoscopic.  I  am  all  things  to  all 
men." 

There  was  a  long  pause  between  them; 
both  watched  a  shiny  skiff  upon  the  shining 
sea. 

"  When  I  die,"  said  Sir  Henry—"  Don't, 
Anthony;  of  course  I  know  I  am  dying.  We 
must  talk  about  it  sooner  or  later;  we  may 
as  well  talk  about  it  now.  When  I  die,  what 
will  become  of  Stawell,  and  of  all  my  work 
there,  and — and  " — his  voice  faltered — "  of 
everything?  "  He  steadied  it.  "  Let  me  say 
what  I  wanted  to  say,  Anthony — all  of  it.  I 
have  worked  hard  all  my  life,  you  know  I 
have.  It's  been  practical  work.  I  don't  know 
anything  about  music  and  painting  ;  I 
couldn't  if  I'd  tried.  We're  very  different; 
you  take  after  mother.     But  there's  the  cot- 


1 84  HER   MEMORY. 

tages,  and  all  the  improvements,  and  the  coun- 
ty business.  Then  there  was  the  parliamen- 
tary work,  and  my  Under  Secretaryship — I 
liked  that.i  Anthony,  I  know  you  don't  care 
about  that  sort  of  thing,  but — look  here,  I'm 
not  yet  forty-five,  I've  hardly  had  a  fair  chance 
— no,  I  don't  want  to  say  that;  but  I  do  think, 
honestly,  I  do  think,  sometimes,  that  I've 
done  some  good — in  a  way?  " 

'^'  Indeed  you  have!  "  exclaimed  Anthony. 
He  moved  to  grip  his  brother's  hand,  but  re- 
frained. 

*'  I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,"  an- 
swered Henry.  "  You  see,  it  was  my  line.  I 
fancy,  Anthony,  I  understand  more  about 
you  than  you  think.  I  don't  know  about  art, 
but  I — I  like  poetry,  some  of  it.  I  like  Virgil 
immensely,  and-  Wordsworth.  I  can  under- 
stand one's  devoting  one's  life  to  art.  But 
it's  no  use  bungling.  Now  any  fellow  with 
average  brains  can  do  my  sort  of  work,  and 
give  his  leisure  to  the  other  thing." 


HER   MEMORY.  igj 

Anthony  blushed,  from  an  indistinct  sense 
of  discomfort. 

*'  Anthony,"  suddenly  Sir  Henry  turned 
his  eyes  from  the  sea;  "  I  want  you,  when  I 
am  gone,  to  give  your  leisure — only  your  lei- 
sure, mind  you — to  the  old  place.  Smithers 
has  been  agent  so  long,  he  knows  all  about  it; 
he'll  help  you  in  everything.  I  don't  want 
you  to  give  up  painting — no,  no.  You 
needn't  go  into  Parliament,  though  I  wish 
you  would  consider  it;  you're  a  Conserva- 
tive, aren't  you?  though  you  are  a  cosmo- 
politan. You  don't  want  the  Radicals  to 
have  the  old  country,  do  you?  But  there's 
your  influence  in  the  county,  Anthony,  and 
all  the  responsibility.  You  can't  get  out 
of  that,  you  see!" — Sir  Henry  grew  eager. 
"  By  not  using  it,  of  course  you  use  it 
wrong." 

''  Yes,"  said  Anthony,  dully. 

"  I'm  so  glad  you  see  that  " — the  sick 
man  sank  back — "  I  don't  want  you  to  prom- 


1 86  HER   MEMORY. 

ise  me  anything;  only  to  consider  it  all,  and 
to  do  your  best.'* 

"  I  will,"  said  Anthony. 

"  And  God  bless  you,  Anthony.  There  is 
Frangois:  ici,  Frangois!  I  wonder  how  he 
can  put  up  with  my  French  accent;  now,  his 
broken  English  is  almost  pretty!  And  there 
are  Mrs.  Fosby  and  Margie.  Margie,  come 
and  kiss  your  old  uncle.  You  know  he  may 
have  one  kiss  a  day." 

Margie  obeyed,  seriously,  for  was  she 
not  twelve  years  old?  Between  her  and  Sir 
Henry  a  deep  friendship  had  taken  root. 
Margie  had  never  loved  so  many  people 
before. 

"  Come,  Margie,"  said  her  father,  "  it  is 
high  time  we  went  for  our  walk.  Run  and  get 
your  specimen-box;  why  didn't  you  bring  it 
with  you? — Fathers  always  have  to  do  the 
reproving,"  he  added  to  Mrs.  Fosby  as  Mar- 
gie disappeared. 

**  Especially  fathers  who  educate  their  own 


HER   MEMORY.  187 

children,"  replied  the  old  lady,  who  disap- 
proved of  the  system.  Anthony  mentally 
shrugged  his  shoulders  as  he  followed  his 
daughter  to  the  hotel  door. 

"  I  have  been  speaking  to  Anthony,"  said 
Sir  Henry.  "  I  have  told  him  everything." 
Mrs.  Fosby  did  not  ask  what  "  everything  " 
was.  ''That  is,  everything  I  could;  not  so 
very  much,  really.  There  are  things  one  finds 
it  hard  and  things  one  finds  it  impossible  to 
say." 

''  I  think  it  was  enough,"  he  added.  He 
was  speaking  to  himself  more  than  to  her. 

*'  And  what  did  he  reply?  "  questioned  the 
old  lady,  nervously. 

Sir  Henry  recollected  himself. 

*'  About  marrying  again,  you  mean  ? 
True,  that  was  what  you  had  suggested.  But 
I  couldn't,  I  really  couldn't,  dear  Mrs.  Fosby. 
I  spoke  to  him  of  other  concerns — my  own, 
I  am  afraid.  That  marriage  question,  it  isn't 
one  I  feel  I  could  approach  him  on;  just,  see 


1 88  HER   MEMORY. 

how  he  has  mourned  for  his  wife — and  no 
wonder." 

"  I  have  mourned  for  my  daughter/'  said 
Mrs.  Fosby,  setting  her  face  hard.  "  I  mourn 
for  her  daily;  she  was  all  I  had.  But  when 
we  love  our  departed  dead  we  owe  them  more 
than  mourning." 

Sir  Henry  did  not  answer,  but  the  words 
struck  every  chord  in  his  heart. 

"  There  are  social  contingencies,"  Mrs. 
Fosby  hurried  on,  "  parental  obligations. 
Anthony  has  many  good  qualities,  but  he  is 
certainly  very  egotistical." 

"  He  says  he  is  all  things  to  all  men."  Sir 
Henry  smiled  sadly. 

"  Well,  look  what  an  argument  he  gave 
you  there!"  cried  sharp  Mrs.  Fosby. 

''  So  he  did."  Sir  Henry  smiled  again. 
"  But,  you  see,  I  didn't  like  to  use  arguments. 
I  pity  him  exceedingly.  The  whole  thing 
will  be  a  great  bore  to  him,  but  it  can't  be 
helped." 


HER   MEMORY.  jg^ 

"A  bore!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Fosby.  She 
restrained  herself.  The  glories  of  Stawell  rose 
up  before  her  eyes. 

"  I  daresay  it  will  all  come  right,"  Sir 
Henry  sighed,  wearily.  "  Anthony  hasn't  our 
abstract  idea  of  duty;  perhaps  mine  is  too  ab- 
stract; with  him  it  is  concrete;  he  will  do  any- 
thing for  a  person  he  loves.  It  is  too  delicate 
a  matter,  Mrs.  Fosby;  he  would  ask  me  why 
/  hadn't  married,  if  I  cared  so  much  about  the 
name.  I  had  my  own  reasons,  which  I  shall 
take  down  into  the  grave  with  me;  I  have 
never  had  fair  health;  life's  been  uphill  work 
at  the  best.  I  think  I  had  better  go  in.  I  am 
awfully  tired." 

Meanwhile,  Anthony,  unaware  of  this  in- 
nocent plotting,  took  his  usual  walk  with 
Margie.  Before  his  brother  broached  the 
subject,  he  had,  of  course,  realised  that  a 
great   change   was   approaching   in   his   life. 

And  now,  he  had  bound  himself  by  a  prom- 
13 


IQO  HER   MEMORY. 

ise  to  try  and  do  his  duty.  Well,  he  would 
have  attempted  that  in  any  case.  Since 
his  picture  was  finished,  he  had  lived  idly, 
in  suspense.  He  could  do  nothing  but 
wait. 

A  few  days  after  the  above-mentioned  con- 
versation. Sir  Henry  Stollard's  illness  took  its 
last  turn  for  the  worse,  and  one  rainy  morn- 
ing of  the  mild  Riviera  winter,  the  French 
valet  knocked  at  Anthony's  door  with  the  ter- 
rified tidings  that  the  sick  man  had  quietly 
died  during  the  night.  "  I  hope  I  shall  give 
no  trouble,"  the  baronet  had  repeatedly  said. 
And  once  he  had  added,  "  Baedeker  declares 
the  authorities  assist  one  in  opposing  the 
hotel-keeper's  exorbitant  demands."  To  him- 
self he  had  often  wondered,  with  many  mis- 
givings reminiscent  of  the  last  decease  in  the 
family,  how  Anthony  would  act.  According- 
ly, he  had  confided  his  last  wishes,  minutely, 
to  Frangois. 

"  Send  me  the  proprietor,"  said  Anthony, 


HER   MEMORY.  igi 

hastily  dressing;  "  I  will  settle  everything 
with  him." 

Francois  hesitated.  "  You  will  pardon 
me,  Sar  Anzony,"  he  said;  "  Sir  Henry  in  his 
last  days  informed  me  exactly  of  whatever  he 
desired." 

Anthony  winced.  "  So  be  it,"  he  said. 
"  You  can  tell  me  whatever  you  wish.  I  will 
act  accordingly."  He  had  braced  himself  to 
all  this,  and  a  good  deal  more.  He  knew  it 
must  come;  and  he  now  took  up  the  role 
with  a  mask,  and  a  mantle,  and  extra  high 
buskins. 

So  the  little  party  arrived  in  England,  and 
Sir  Henry  was  laid  to  rest  in  the  family  vault, 
with  all  due  ceremonial  and  decorum.  Every- 
body said  he  was  a  very  great  loss,  and  peo- 
ple looked  askance  at  his  successor. 

Anthony  was  chief  mourner,  and  faced  the 
astonished  county — calm,  dignified,  courte- 
ous, exactly  as  he  ought  to  be!  "  Not  mad 
a  bit,  my  dear.    Not  even  eccentric.    And  he 


1^2  HER   MEMORY. 

was  always  a  good-looking  man!"  It  was 
Christmastide,  cold,  beefy,  loud-coloured;  the 
traveller  drew  his  mantle  close  and  fitted  his 
mask. 

But  he  had  little  time  for  pose  or  repose. 
At  Stawell  they  established  him  in  the  library 
and  then  began  knocking  at  the  door.  From 
morning  to  night  there  was  "  business."  For 
years  he  had  never  done  any  other  business 
than  draw  cheques.  Three  weeks  after  its 
arrival  the  picture  of  Margaret  still  stood 
packed. 

Margie  wandered  about  the  beautiful  old 
house.  People  were  excessively  civil  to  her. 
A  few  weeks  after  she  had  first  realised  the 
possible — far-away — contingency,  her  father 
had  changed  into  an  English  baronet.  He 
was  always  locked  up  now  with  dull-looking 
people,  talking  about  things  that  could  inter- 
est neither  her  nor  him.  She  was  very  lonely. 
She  grieved  for  Uncle  Henry,  a  real  friend, 
just  made,  just  lost.    She  grieved  all  the  more 


HER   MEMORY.  193 

that,  in  dying,  he  had  carried  her  father  with 
him,  out  of  her  empty  Hfe. 

"  Margie,  I've  got  a  whole  afternoon  to 
myself.  What  shall  we  do  with  it?  "  They 
were  at  breakfast  together.  Sir  Anthony 
looked  out  on  the  sunlit  frost. 

"  Sleigh  across  to  Thurdles,"  replied  Mar- 
gie at  once. 

Sir  Anthony  started.  "  Why  to  Thur- 
dles?  "  he  asked.  He  had  not  yet  been  near 
the  place.  "  And,  besides,"  he  added,  hastily, 
escaping  from  the  subject,  "  I  don't  imagine 
you  would  like  sleighing  at  all,  even  if  we 
could  do  it;  it's  a  bitterly  cold  amusement." 

"  Well,  papa,  you  asked  me  what  I  liked. 
There's  a  sleigh  down  at  the  farm  Jackson 
says  will  do  excellently.  And  everyone  de- 
clares that  it's  capital  fun." 

"  So  be  it.    But  not  to  Thurdles." 

"  Oh!  papa.  It  would  be  so  nice  to  go  to 
Thurdles." 


1^4  HER   MEMORY. 

"  Why?  "  He  bent  forward;  the  stress  of 
his  voice  disturbed  her. 

"  Jackson  says  it's  the  best  road  for  sleigh- 
ing," she  answered;  which  was  true,  as  also 
the  fact  that,  having  once  visited  the  old  home 
with  her  grandmother,  she  was  now  anxious 
to  return  with  him. 

"  Oh,  well,  let  it  be  Thurdles,"  he  said, 
with  ill-concealed  irritation.  He  deemed  her 
rather  heartless,  too  much  occupied  with  her- 
self, and  the  novelty  of  her  English  surround- 
ings. This  lady  of  the  manor  existence  must 
be  very  bad  for  a  girl  of  twelve. 

She,  reconsidering  his  hesitation  to  go,  re- 
solved to  make  matters  pleasant  for  him  by 
showing  a  cheerful  front.  If  there  was  one 
lesson  that  grandmamma  Fosby  had  im- 
pressed upon  her  in  their  many  confidential 
talks  last  autumn  it  was,  that  she,  Margie, 
must  be  her  father's  consolation,  the  bright 
element  in  his  clouded  life.  Papa  was — well, 
to  say  the  truth — morbid;  to  this  Margie  de- 


HER   MEMORY. 


195 


murred.  "  And  you  must  help  us  to  get  him 
out  of  that,  my  dear.  You  mustn't,  above  all 
things,  encourage  him  in  what  I  call  parade  of 
the  afflictions,  or,  is  it  the  affections?  The 
present  belongs  to  the  future;  I  mean,  your 
father  belongs  to  society.  I  don't  think  his 
liver  can  be  right.  Now,  Margaret,  tell  me, 
frankly,  is  he  looking  bilious?  " 

"  What  is  bilious,  grandmamma?  " 

"Oh! — er,  yellow,  er — green.  Dear  me, 
child,  I  fear  you  have  been  very  much  neg- 
lected. Does  your  so-called  governess 
never " 

"  No,  no,  grandma;  only  papa  won't  allow 
me  to  talk  about  diseases." 

"Administer  a  necessary  pill,"  said  grand- 
mamma, severe,  over  her  spectacles. 

*'  Why,  that  sounds  Hke  the  hymn,  grand- 
mamma," replied  Margie,  laughing. 

''  What  hymn,  child?  " 

*'  Oh!  you  know;  the  funny  hymn:  *  Now, 
come  down,  Sal '  " 


196  HER   MEMORY. 

"  Indeed,  I  do  not.  Margaret,  we  had  bet- 
ter speak  of  something  else." 

But  Margie  had  remembered  to  be  the 
bright  element  in  her  father's  life.  On  this 
occasion  also,  as  they  flew  over  the  crackling 
snow,  she  talked  and  laughed  until  his  face 
was  lit  with  smiles.  The  whole  landscape 
swam  around  them  in  vast  masses  of  white 
and  blue,  under  a  continuous  downpour  of 
diamond  sparkles.  It  was  a  glorious  sun-filled 
winter  day. 

"  Yes,  yes,  it  is  beautiful,  but  very  cold," 
said  Anthony,  shivering. 

Then  it  was  Margie's  turn  to  shudder,  for 
she  suddenly  realised  that  perhaps  her  father 
would  perish  of  cold,  and  she  would  have 
killed  him!  She  remembered  reading  Sibe- 
rian stories  about  exposure  in  snow.  She 
didn't  feel  uncomfortable,  but  then  she  was  so 
strong.  He  wasn't  strong,  she  believed;  his 
complexion  was  sallow,  and  they  had  lived  in 
Italy.     She  trembled  for  the  dear  life,  whose 


HER   MEMORY.  197 

possible  risk  had  never  occurred  to  her  in  the 
gentle  south. 

"  Oh,  let's  stop  and  go  home,"  she  said, 
her  eyes  filling. 

Already  they  had  caught  sight  of  vague 
gables,  among  the  barren  trees. 

*'  Why?  "  he  questioned. 

*'  It's  so  cold,  papa." 

He  set  his  teeth  hard.  "  Not  for  this  last 
short  bit,"  he  said,  and  whipped  up  the  horse. 
The  girl's  callousness  seemed  incomprehen- 
sible; to  him  the  moment  was  sacred,  over- 
whelming. 

He  resolutely  passed  from  one  room  to 
another,  explaining  many  things,  recalling 
more,  reverting  to  so  much  he  had  told  her 
of  an  hundred  times  at  Florence,  re-living  with 
the  child  and  their  embalmed  memory  the 
suddenly  resuscitate  past.  How  often  had  he 
not  pictured,  with  dread  and  yearning,  this 
tenderly  solemn  hour?  For  the  first  time  in 
all  these  years  of  carefully  cultured  recollec- 


igS  HER   MEMORY. 

tion,  the  dead  presence  seemed  to  breathe 
beside  them,  to  Hsten  as  they  spoke  with  bated 
voices,  to  look  straight  into  their  eyes.  And 
now  Margie  was  preoccupied  with  the  cold, 
her  own  health,  her  own  comfort — anxious  to 
hurry  on,  to  get  back  to  tea! 

"  It  is  the  beefiness  of  England,"  he  re- 
flected. That  was  a  favourite  expression  of 
his.    "  The  beefiness  of  England.'* 

"  Yes,  that  was  the  corner  you  were  always 
stood  in,  when  you  were  naughty,"  he  said; 
"  the  corner  from  which  you  said  that  you 
would  be  good,  if  you  could,  but  you  couldn't 
'  because  of  the  old  Madam; '  and  Nurse  Lin- 
tot  was  very  angry,  for  she  thought  you 
meant  grandmamma!  Come  away,  Margie. 
You  are  never  naughty  now!  "  His  voice  was 
just  a  trifle  bitter;  he  hurried  past  the  one 
closed  door  he  had  come  resolved  to  open, 
and  made  for  the  hall  door. 

"  Please,  Sir  Anthony,"  spoke  the  care- 
taker, interrupting  him,  ''  the  case  you  sent 


HER   MEMORY.  igg 

home  this  morning  'as  been  placed  in  Mrs. — 
in  my  lady's — begging  your  pardon — hown 
room,  as  you  bordered,  Sir  Anthony — and 
I've  laid  a  screw-driver  on  the  table  all  ready, 
as  was  the  message,  Sir  Anthony." 

Margie  looked  up.  With  quick  in- 
sight she  understood  what  the  case  con- 
tained. 

"'^  It  has  got  too  late  for  to-day,"  said  An- 
thony hastily.  *'  Let  everything  remain  as 
it  is,  Mrs.  Gibbons;  I  shall  be  coming  back 
next  week."  His  mind  was  out  of  tune  with 
the  child's;  he  wanted  to  get  away. 

He  turned  back  on  the  steps.  "  Be  sure 
nobody  touches  it,"  he  said. 

"Touch  it — or  anything.  Sir  Anthony! — 

lor,  before  anybody  was  to "     The  horse 

flung  his  head  up  impatiently,  with  a  jingle 
of  bells. 

Father  and  daughter  spoke  little  on  the 
way  home.  He  was  amazed  that  she  had  not 
asked  after  the  boudoir.    A  water-colour  per- 


200  HER  MEMORY. 

trait  by  himself — an  early  thing,  poor — hung 
in  his  old  "  den  ";  she  had  turned  away  from 
it  impatiently.  The  locket  and  chain  were 
long  gone  from  her  neck;  she  never  talked 
any  more  about  photographs.  He  wondered 
whether  she  was  deliberately  setting  herself 
to  forget,  rebelling  against  his  morbid  cloud- 
ing of  her  bright  young  existence.  She  was 
right.    The  more  fool  he! 

When  he  went  up  to  dress  for  dinner, 
Frangois  desired  a  word  with  him.  That  was 
only  natural;  somebody  was  always  standing 
ready  to  worry  him  now.  "  Well,  what  is  it?  " 
he  said  hastily. 

*'Sar  Anzony,  I  'ave  waited  till  you  were — 
'ow  shall  I  say  it? — installed.  But  now  I  'ope 
zat  you  will  permit  me  to  speak.  You  'ave  no 
more,  I  imagine  myself,  immediate  necessity 
for  my  services?  "  The  valet  looked  inter- 
rogative. He  was  a  blue-cheeked,  high- 
boned  Parisian,  creamy  of  complexion,  close- 
ly cropped. 


HER   MEMORY.  20I 

"  Well,  no,  I  suppose  not,''  replied  An- 
thony much  relieved.  "  Why?  Do  you  con- 
template leaving  Stawell?  '* 

"  For  myself,  I  would  not,  Sar  Anzony. 
Sar  'Enry  was  an  excellent  master.  You  also 
are  an  excellent  gentleman.  But  zere  are  rea- 
sons which  render  imperative  zat  I  return  to 
my  native  land." 

"  I  hope  they  are  pleasant  reasons,  Fran- 
cois. Profitable  reasons  also.  I  shall  always 
wish  you  well." 

"  Ah,  Sar  Anzony,  where  is  zere  anyzing 
profitable  to  ze  people  of  my  condition?  We 
are  born  to  be  poor.  England  is  profitable. 
But  I  cannot  remain  in  England.  It  is  physi- 
cally impossible." 

"  That  I  can  enter  into,"  returned  An- 
thony heartily.  ''  To  foreigners  the  climate 
must  be  terribly  trying." 

"  Ah,  Sar  Anzony,  it  is  not  ze  climate,  it  is 
ze  language.  Ze  language  to  me,  it  would  be 
fatal.    In  time  I  say  no." 


202  HER   MEMORY. 

"The  language?  what  on  earth  are  you 
aiming  at?  " 

"  Ze  English  language,  Sar  Anzony,  in  ze 
foreigner  oo  'as  ze  tendency,  it  is  proved  by 
ze  medical  auzorities  zat  it  produces  cancer 
in  ze  zroat.  Zink  of  it,  Sar  Anzony,  it  is  'or- 
rible!  Ze  German  doctors — I  'ave  read  in 
many  newspapers — zey  'ave  proved  zat  ze 
German  Emperor  Frederic  'ave  died  from 
speaking  English  in  ze  bosom  of  'is  family. 
'Im  I  need  'ardly  pity,  'e  was  a  Prussian. 
Still  one  pities  'im — cancer  in  ze  zroat ; 
it  is  too  'orrible!  And  of  late,  since  I  read 
zat,  I  'ave  pain  in  my  zroat,  many  times. 
I  say  it  cannot  be,  but  in  vain.  I  go.  I 
fly." 

"  Cancer  in  the  throat?  What  unutter- 
able nonsense!  " 

"  It  is  ze  *  th,'  zey  believe,  Sar  Anzony. 
See,  you  'ave  it  even  in  your  name.  But  in 
vain  I  avoid  it,  Sar  Anf/iony!  I  can  say  it  as 
well  as  ze  English.     Better!     But  I  refrain. 


HER   MEMORY.  203 

Carefully  do  I  avoid  it.  Yet  ze  soreness  is 
zare." 

"  I  remember  reading  about  the  Em- 
peror's doctors,"  said  Anthony.  "  But  I 
didn't  think  any  one  believed  it — not  even 
they!" 

*'  Ah,  Sar  Anzony,  it  is  impossible  for  one 
nation  to  understand  another — especially  ze 
English.  And  you,  who  are  of  all  people  most 
English " 

"  Dear  me!  "  exclaimed  Anthony,  amazed. 
His  astonishment  overcame  his  discretion. 
"  You  say  that,  after  having  lived  with  my 
brother?  " 

"  Sar  'Enry  never  come  outside;  'e  was 
white  among  ze  whites,  ga  ne  se  voit  pas. 
You,  you  are  white  among  ze  blacks;  ga  se 
voit." 

"  I  observe,"  replied  Anthony,  greatly  in- 
terested. "  But  why  don't  you  say  '  black 
among  the  whites '  at  once,  while  you're 
about  it,  for  that  is  what  you  mean?  " 


204  ^^^   MEMORY. 

The  valet  threw  up  a  deprecating  hand. 
"  Monsieur  plaisante/'  he  said. 

"  And,  by  the  bye,  if  you  are  so  afraid  of 
speaking  EngHsh,  why  do  you  persist  in  using 
that  language  to  me,  while  you  always  spoke 
French  with  my  poor  brother,  who  couldn't 
make  himself  understood?  " 

"  Monsieur  ne  sera  pas  fache?  " 
"  Of  course  not,  as  I  ask  you!  " 
"  Well,  then,  Sar  Anzony,  Sar  'Enri,  'e 
speak  so  ill,  nobody  zink  to  compare,  but  Sar 
Anzony  'e  speak  so  well,  one  observes  'ow  it 
be  ill.  And  to  a  Frenchman  it  'urt.  But  zat 
is  of  no  importance;  it  is  only  because  you 
ask,  zat  I  explain  myself.  It  is  unintentional, 
Sar  Anzony,  it  is  instinctive;  I  speak,  of 
course,  ze  language  you  desire  me  to  speak. 
But  as  for  me,  my  country  calls  me;  I  am 
'omesick.  To  live  'ere  always,  in  ze  Eng- 
lish country,  it  were  to  me  simply  impossible. 
Sir  'Enry  was  in  London,  in  ze  movement;  it 
is  'orribly  dark  zere,  indeed,  but  ze  doctors 


HER   MEMORY.  205 

declare  ze  darkness  is  ealzy!  'Ere  I  would 
fall  ill  of  some  swifter  disease,  even  were 
it  not  for  ze  fear  of  ze  language.  I  would 
take  ze  liberty  of  presenting  my  younger 
brozer,  00  'as  possibly  all  ze  family  virtues, 
and  certainly  none  of  'is  elder's  particular 
faults." 

"  Your  faults?  "  asked  Anthony  with  an 
amused  smile. 

"  We  all  'ave  zem." 

"  And  you  don't  object  to  the  idea  of  your 
brother  falling  ill?  " 

Frangois  looked  mightily  offended. 

"  'E  'as  not  ze  tendency,  Sar  Anzony. 
Ah,  yes,  I  'ave  certainly  my  faults.  But  not 
egotism;  for  my  family  I  sacrifice  myself. 
Would  you  please  to  see  my  brozer?  After 
dinner  may  'e  mount?  " 

"  What,  you've  got  him  here!  "  Anthony 
turned  from  arranging  his  tie. 

"  But  yes;  before  offering  my  resignation, 

was  it  not  my  duty  to  obtain  a  remplagantf  " 
14 


2o6  HER   MEMORY. 

"  You  could  have  spared  yourself  the 
trouble,  had  you  uttered  a  word.  I  shall  not 
require  a  man." 

The  valet  stared  in  round-eyed  silence. 

*'  Well,  what  is  it?  "  queried  Anthony,  pro- 
voked. 

"  But,  Sar  Anzony,  I  do  not  understand. 
Sar — Anzony — Stollard — Baronette — not — 
require — a — man!  " 

Anthony  laughed  aloud. 

*'  No,"  he  said,  "  I  shall  live  a  quiet  Hfe 
down  here,  very  different  from  my  brother's." 

The  man  made  a  grimace.  "  But  yes,  it 
will  be  quiet,"  he  said. 

"And  as  soon  as  possible — and  as  long  as 
possible — I  shall  go  abroad." 

The  man  pricked  up  his  ears.  "  Go 
abroad,"  he  repeated  dubiously. 

"  Yes;  don't  you  approve?  " 

"  Sar  Anzony,  I  should  not  venture  to  in- 
terrogate. But  I  'ad  been  assured  zat  it  was 
out  of  ze  question,  zat  'enceforze  you  would 


HER  MEMORY. 


207 


inevitably  ever  remain  in  zis  country,  Sar  An- 
zony." 

"  And  who  assured  you  so?    Not  I." 

Again  Frangois  cast  up  his  hand.  "  No, 
Sar  Anzony.  Nor  Mrs.  Fosby.  But  I  'ave 
understood  it  is  impossible  for  ze  baronette  of 
Stawell  to  reside  on  ze  Continent,  ozer- 
wise " 

"  Otherwise  you  might  not  have  found 
yourself  catching  cancer.  And  who  gave  you 
that  precious  bit  of  information?  " 

"  Everybody,"  said  the  valet  doggedly. 
"  Also  Jane  Mary,  Mrs.  Fosby's  maid." 


CHAPTER   XII. 

"  Oh,  you  will  accept  the  inevitable,"  said 
Lady  Mary.  She  threw  herself  back  among 
the  Oriental  cushions  of  her  little  London 
smoking  den.    "  People  always  do." 

"  Not  always,"  said  Anthony  moodily. 

"  Educated  people  do.  It  proves  want  of 
refinement  to  go  on  kicking  against  the 
pricks." 

Anthony  flushed. 

"  And  you  say  that  to  me,  who  have  never 
done  anything  else?  " 

Lady  Mary  laughed  between  two  pulls  of 
her  cigarette. 

"  Oh,  yes,  you  have,"  she  said.     "  That  is 

only  fancy.     You  were  very  comfortable  in 

Florence,  I  feel  sure.    And  now  you  will  make 

an  excellent  monarch  of  Stawell." 
208 


HER   MEMORY.  209 

"You  really  think  so?" 
"And  member  for  South  Oaks." 
"  That  never!  "  he  exclaimed,  with  great 
energy. 

"  Yes,  yes,  you  will.  It  is  your  duty,  and 
you  think  it  unpleasant — ^you  are  certain  to 
do  it." 

"  I  have  never  done  my  duty  yet." 
"  So  be  it;  the  man  who  says  that  is  about 
to  begin.  But  you  are  mistaken.  Ever  since 
the  loss  of  your  wife  four  years  ago  you  have 
devoted  yourself  to  your  little  daughter  for 
her  sake.  You  have  done  a  great  deal  more 
than  your  duty,  though  I  am  not  quite  sure 
what  your  duty  was.  And  now,  for  the  sake 
of  your  dead  brother,  you  are  going  to  sacri- 
fice yourself  over  again."  He  would  have 
protested,  but  she  stopped  him.  "  And  quite 
right  too,"  she  said  coolly.  "  Besides,  you 
cannot  act  otherwise.  There  is  no  greater 
tyranny  on  earth  than  the  self-indulgence  of 
your  conscientious  man.    You  will  force  your- 


210  HER  MEMORY. 

self,  my  dear  Anthony,  to  accept  this  vacant 
seat." 

"  No,  I  sha'n't,"  said  Anthony. 

"  Shall — sha'n't.  What  a  funny  sort  of 
schoolboy  conversation  we  are  having.  Well, 
if  you  don't,  so  much  the  better  for  me." 

"  What  on  earth  do  you  mean?  " 

"  If  you  definitely  refuse,  they  will  put  up 
my  husband,  faute  de  mieux.  You  know  he 
was  thrown  out  at  the  general  election." 

"  I  thought  he  was  to  be  consoled  with  a 
baronetcy?  " 

*'  The  baronetcy  will  come  in  any  case;  he 
has  paid  for  it." 

"  I  congratulate  you." 

"  Oh,  no.  To  me  it  seems  an  absurdity. 
An  old  man  like  Thomas  does  that  sort  of 
thing  for  his  sons."  Over  Lady  Mary's  face 
stole  a  meditative  look  of  regret.  "  But  I 
should  prefer  him  to  get  back  into  Parlia- 
ment; it  will  occupy  his  evenings,  and  restore 
his  good  temper,  which  Eveline's  behaviour 


HER   MEMORY.  211 

has  not  been  calculated  to  improve.  Now,  we 
play  piquet  every  night,  and  I  detest  piquet." 

"  Most  certainly  Mr.  Hunt  shall  have  my 
seat,"  said  Anthony  gleefully. 

"  '  Tarry  a  little;  there  is  something  else.' 
That's  a  quotation,  isn't  it?  You  haven't  even 
asked  after  Thomas's  political  views.  But  of 
course  you  can  guess  them.  Fifty  thousand 
a  year  and  a  cheesemonger  grandfather. 
Thomas  is,  of  course,  an  ultra-Conservative." 

"  Do  you  say  these  sort  of  things  to  many 
people?  " 

"  To  you  only.  Hush,  you  should  never 
extract  that  kind  of  confession  from  a  woman. 
Take  another  cigarette.  Thomas  is  opposed 
to  every  social  reform  or  improvement.  In 
his  speeches  of  course  he  calls  himself  a  Tory 
Democrat.  I  imagine  the  Government  find 
him  rather  a  handful.  But  they  must  give 
him  a  seat  again,  whether  for  South  Oaks  or 
some  other  place.  He  will  make  an  excellent 
successor  to  Sir  Henry." 


212  HER   MEMORY. 

Anthony  sat  looking  at  his  boots  for  some 
time.  Presently  he  said,  with  deep  conviction 
— and  a  laugh — in  his  voice: 

"  Lady  Mary,  you  are  a  very  intriguing 
v^oman." 

"  I  have  not  the  remotest  idea  what  you 
mean,''  she  replied  promptly. 

He  got  up.  "  It  would  be  difficult,"  he 
said,  "  to  make  myself  plainer.  But  how 
about  the  piquet?  " 

"  I  also,"  she  replied,  playing  with  her 
cigarette;  "  I  accept  the  inevitable — at  least, 
till  the  next  vacancy.  Even  the  Government 
of  this  great  empire,  you  see,  has  to  do  that." 

He  went  off  to  his  club,  where  he  had  a 
room.  He  found  Mr.  Smithers,  the  agent, 
waiting  for  him,  and  also  the  inevitable  packet 
of  letters.  He  glanced  over  these.  One  was 
from  Thomas  Hunt.  The  writer,  presuming 
the  report  to  be  true  that  Sir  Anthony  Stol- 
lard  was  returning  to  Italy  and  amateur  paint- 
ing, asked  in  no  very  dignified  manner  for  the 


HER   MEMORY.  213 

seat  thus  left  vacant.  His  political  convic- 
tions, he  need  hardly  affirm,  were  entirely  Sir 
Henry's — Tory  Democracy,  government  for 
the  people.  Anthony  tossed  the  letter  aside, 
and  turned  to  the  agent.  "  More  business?  " 
he  said. 

He  paused  presently,  surrounded  by 
papers. 

"  I  don't  understand  these  figures,"  he 
said ;  "  I  am  so  stupid  at  sums,  you  must  really 
have  patience  with  me,  Smithers." 

"  Excuse  me.  Sir  Anthony  " — Mr.  Smith- 
ers'  manner  was  nervous — "  it  is  quite  pos- 
sible there  should  be  some  confusion  in  the 
carpenter's  account.  Jobson  is  a  terrible 
muddle-head.  Will  you  allow  me — you  are 
so  quick.  Sir  Anthony,  at  noticing  things.  Sir 
Henry  was  nothing  to  it." 

"  You  say  that  to  flatter  me,"  replied  An- 
thony rather  stiffly. 

"  No,  indeed,  it  is  gospel  truth.  Sir  Henry 
took  great  pains  about  everything.    But  you 


214  ^^^   MEMORY. 

are  much  quicker  about  things.  I — I  will 
look  over  Jobson's  statement  again,  if  you 
will  permit  me,  Sir  Anthony.  I  had  just  got 
it  as  I  was  coming  away.'* 

"  Is  there  anything  more?  "  asked  the  bar- 
onet. 

Mr.  Smithers  sat  bolt  upright  and  twid- 
dled his  thumbs. 

"  There  is  the  election,"  he  said. 

''Well,  what  about  it?"  asked  Sir  An- 
thony impatiently. 

"  They  have  put  up  a  Labour  candidate  in 
Rusborough." 

"Indeed!"  Anthony  pushed  all  the 
documents  away  and  turned  round  with  great 
interest.  "  How  is  that?  Tell  me  all  about 
it.  I  thought  that  my  brother  had  never  been 
opposed." 

"  Nor  has  he.  Sir  Anthony,  nor  would  you 
have  been.  None  of  them  would  have  ven- 
tured, though  for  years  the  people  at  the  new 
paper-mills  have  been  burning  to  do  it.     So 


HER  MEMORY.  215 

they've  seized  on  the  opportunity  of  your  not 
standing,  and  before  one  could  say  'Jack  Rob- 
inson,' the  thing's  done." 

"  And  who  is  this  Labour  candidate?  " 
"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  It's  some  Sociahst 
person  from  London,  in  a  black  coat — a  great 
speaker,  I'm  told.  He  used  to  be  a  Method- 
ist parson,  and  now  he  believes  only  in  damn- 
ing the  rich." 

"  But  who  said  I  was  not  going  to  stand?  " 

Mr.  Sniithers  coughed.    "  It  was  generally 

reported.  Sir  Anthony.     You  yourself  have 

repeatedly  informed  me  that  you   intended 

shortly  to  return  to  the  Continent.    And  the 

Radicals  at  Rusborough  thought  they  would 

stand  a  much  better  chance  against  a  London 

banker,  a  personage  utterly  unknown  in  these 

parts,  so  they're  out  with  their  man." 

"  What  London  banker?  " 

"  Mr.  Hunt,  Sir  Anthony.    He  is  to  be  the 

Conservative  candidate,  is  he  not?     So  we 

have  all  understood,  and,  of  course,  with  your 


2i6  HER  MEMORY. 

entire  approval?  His  chances  are  excellent, 
on  the  whole:  of  course  he  must  promise  still 
more  than  the  other  man." 

"  I  know  nothing  of  Mr.  Hunt's  candi- 
dature. That  is  to  say,  I  hear  of  it  to-day  for 
the  first  time.  But  no  Conservative  candidate 
could  promise  as  much  as  the  other  man." 

"Why  not.  Sir  Anthony?  Lots  of  'em 
do.  They  will  not  keep  their  promises,  but 
then,  neither  w411  the  Radicals.  It  is  for  a  can- 
didate to  make  promises  and  for  his  party  not 
to  keep  them.  And  I  fancy  Mr.  Hunt  is  quite 
aware  of  that  fact." 

"  How  do  you  know?  "  asked  Anthony 
quickly. 

"  I  am  speaking  from  hearsay.  I  have  not 
the  pleasure  of  Mr.  Hunt's  personal  acquaint- 
ance." The  agent's  manner  was  hurried,  his 
statement  only  literally  correct.  He  had  al- 
ready corresponded  with  the  great  banker, 
had  received  money  from  him,  and  hoped  to 
receive  more. 


HER  MEMORY.  zij 

Anthony  remained  silent  for  some  time, 
meditating  on  all  that  he  had  just  heard,  and 
combining  it  with  Lady  Mary's  warning. 
Then  he  deliberately  crossed  his  Rubicon. 

"I  knew  nothing  of  Mr.  Hunt's  pLansT 
he  said.    "  I  intend  to  stand  mysdL** 

Annoyance  kept  Smithers  from  answoing 
immediately.    At  last  he  said: 

"  That  resolution,  if  you  adhere  to  it,  will 
cause  a  great  change  in  all  your  arrange- 
ments. Sir  Anthony." 

"  I  had  hardly  made  any  definite  arrange- 
ments as  yet." 

*'  I  \\-as  thinking  of  the  past — of  your  Kfe 
at  Florence." 

"  That  is  over,"  said  Anthony,  and  he  sent 
the  agent  away. 

Mr.  Smithers  walked  to  Paddington  in  a 
condition  of  mind  which  he  himself  would 
have  described  as  **  put  out."  Sir  Henry  had 
been  an  excellent  type  of  the  landlord  who  is 
also  a  poUtician,  and  under  Sir  Henry's  so- 


2i8  HER   MEMORY. 

premacy,  the  agent  had  succeeded  in  gradu- 
ally stealing  his  thousands.  He  had  calcu- 
lated on  stealing  his  ten  thousands  under 
the  nominal  rule  of  the  new  man  at  Flor- 
ence. "  How  uncommon  sharp  was  Sir  An- 
thony," he  reflected,  "  about  spotting  those 
alterations  in  Jobson's  account."  His  face 
grew  exceedingly  rueful.  "  And  as  for  that 
banker's  commission,  it's  gone — and  only  a 
contested  election  remaining,  for  the  first  time 
in  my  life,  with  all  the  extra  bother,  and  not 
an  extra  halfpenny — oh  lor!  "  In  the  train  he 
very  nearly  wept  for  Sir  Henry. 

Meanwhile  Anthony,  having  announced 
his  decision,  was  anxious  to  get  back  to  Sta-' 
well,  before  the  news  should  be  all  over  the 
county.  He  hurried  through  his  business  in 
London,  and  without  taking  leave  of  Lady 
Mary,  returned  hastily  home. 

Mrs.  Fosby  had  kept  Margaret  company 
while  the  master  of  the  house  was  away.  The 
old  lady  enjoyed   managing  a   considerable 


HER   MEMORY.  219 

estat)lishment;  she  liked  a  good  quarrel  with 
an  upper  servant,  it  braced  and  invigorated 
her.  To  "  give  people  a  piece  of  her  mind," 
when  she  could  insist  on  their  taking  it,  had 
always  been  her  favourite  act  of  generosity. 
It  was  a  wonder,  considering  what  a  lot  of 
mind  she  had  left — to  do  various  things  no- 
body desired  of  her.  The  household  of  Sta- 
well,  accustomed  to  an  accurate  but  easy- 
going bachelor,  broke  out  into  sporadic  re- 
bellion, and  kept  "  Mother-in-law,"  as  they 
.scornfully  called  her,  in  an  exquisite  flurry  of 
dignity  and  nerves.  The  state  of  affairs  did 
not  augur  well  for  Sir  Anthony's  ultimate  re- 
'  pose. 

"  My  dear  Margie,"  said  Mrs.  Fosby  for 
the  twentieth  time,  "  young  as  you  are,  you 
can  exercise  great  influence  on  your  father. 
He  attaches  much  importance  to  your  likes 
and  dislikes,  a  great  deal  more  than  people 
did  to  children's  ideas  when  /  was  young. 
It  is  very  nice,  I  daresay,  but  it  is  a  great 


220  HER   MEMORY. 

responsibility.  Your  father's  happiness  and 
comfort  are  largely  dependent  on  you." 

Margie's  young  heart  fluttered.  When 
grandmamma  talked  like  that,  she  always 
wanted  to  cry.  But  she  only  said  bravely: 
"  I  will  do  all  I  can,  grandmamma.  At  Flor- 
ence, when  it  rained,  I  always  made  him 
change  his  boots." 

Mrs.  Fosby  smiled,  with  full  consciousness 
of  an  old  lady's  wisdom — "  Especially  now," 
she  continued,  "  when  circumstances  are  so 
much  altered.  Your  dear  father  is  now  a  per- 
sonage of  very  great  importance  " — oh,  de- 
licious words!  She  looked  through  the  win- 
dows of  the  morning  room,  away  across  the 
park — "  many  men,  women,  and  little  chil- 
dren— children  like  yourself — are  dependent 
upon  his  decisions.  Yes,  it  is  a  great  respon- 
sibility. You  like  Stawell  very  much;  you 
enjoy  being  in  this  beautiful  home,  do  you 
not,  my  dear?  " 

Mrs.   Fosby  had  decided  on  ruling  An- 


HER   MEMORY.  221 

thony  through  his  affection  for  Margie.  It 
was  not  a  very  magnanimous  resolve,  nor  was 
she  conscious  of  having  taken  it.  She  repre- 
sented the  matter  very  differently  to  herself. 

"  Yes,  I  like  it  very  much,"  replied  Mar- 
gie, who  fully  appreciated  her  social  impor- 
tance, "  but " 

"  But — ?  "  repeated  Mrs.  Fosby  anxious- 
ly, and  paused  in  her  tatting. 

"  I  should  like  to  live  at  Thurdles 
best." 

"At  Thurdles,  my  dear!— at  Thurdles!" 
repeated  Mrs.  Fosby  in  amazement.  "  Why, 
Thurdles  is  quite  a  small  house  in  comparison 
with  this!  There  are  no  deer  there — no  con- 
servatories to  speak  of — no — why,  my  dear, 
what  could  make  you  give  the  preference  to 
Thurdles?  "  Her  voice  was  quite  irritable; 
the  contrariness  of  human  nature  annoyed 
her. 

A  delicate  instinct  kept  Margie  from  men- 
tioning her  reason.  "  It  is  such  a  pretty  place, 
15 


222  HER   MEMORY. 

grandmamma;  the  name  was  originally  '  The 
Hurdles/  was  it  not?  " 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  replied  Mrs. 
Fosby,  still  ruffled. 

"  Papa  told  me  so,"  said  Margie. 

"  Now,  Margie,  you  must  not  allow  your 
father  to  worry  about  that  place."  Mrs.  Fos- 
by grew  eloquent  as  visions  rose  before  her  of 
Stawell  shut  up,  the  whole  establishment  dis- 
banded, her  own  short-lived  grandeur  a  thing 
of  derision. 

"  You  know,  Margaret,  I  have  told  you 
before,  that  your  father  is — how  shall  I  say? 
— inclined  to  be  morbid.  You  must  counter- 
act the  tendency.  I  mean,  you  must  do  all 
you  can  to  enliven  him.  Nothing  could  be 
worse  for  him — nothing — than  a  residence  at 
Thurdles." 

"  Yes,  grandmamma,  I  quite  understand," 
said  Margie. 

"  I  am  glad  you  do,  my  dear.  And  the 
less  you  refer  to  your  mother,  the  better.  You 


HER   MEMORY.  223 

may  talk  of  her  to  me,  dear;  I  am  able  to 
bear  it." 

"  I  never  mention  her  now,"  said  Margie, 
her  eyes  suffused  with  tears.  "  Besides,  I 
hardly  ever  talk  to  papa  about  anything.  I 
very  seldom  see  him  to  talk  to." 

"  My  child,  on  the  whole  that  is  better 
than  the  other  extreme.  A  young  girl  can  be 
too  much  with  grown-up  people,  especially 
with  men." 

"  Papa  isn't  a  man,"  replied  Margie  in- 
dignantly.   Mrs.  Fosby  sighed. 

"  Perhaps  not,"  she  said,  "  perhaps  not. 
But  at  any  rate  you  are  far  better  off  with 
out-and-out  women,  like  me." 

"  I  like  to  be  with  you,"  said  Margie. 
Mrs.  Fosby  bent  forward  and  kissed  the 
grandchild  she  loved  better  than  anything  on 
earth.  "  I  do  trust,"  she  said,  "  that  some 
arrangement  will  be  made  which  keeps  both 
of  you  in  England.  I  have  a  perfect  horror  of 
foreign  parts  and  their  fevers.     In  the  whole 


224  HER   MEMORY. 

of  Italy,  I  am  told,  there  are  no  drains,  and  I 
can  readily  believe  it.  Ah  me !  all  the  sanitary 
improvements  in  this  house  have  been  carried 
out  by  Messrs.  Jennings,  of  London."  Mrs. 
Fosby  sighed. 

"  Papa  says,"  remarked  Margie,  "  that  the 
people  who  live  in  the  healthiest  houses  are 
always  the  first  to  catch  typhoid." 

Mrs.  Fosby  opened  her  eyes.  Neither  the 
doctrine  that  "  extremes  meet  "  nor  its  prac- 
tical manifestations  had  any  part  in  her  simple 
philosophy.  "My  dear,"  she  said  majestically, 
"  your  father  likes  teasing.  I  hope  that  when 
the  new  governess  is  found,  she  will  be  a  good 
common-sense  person,  with  plenty  of  accom- 
plishments. Common-sense  and  refinement, 
that  is  what  we  need.  But  I  cannot  bear  to 
think  of  your  going  off  to  Florence  together; 
you  are  such  a  small  family,  Margaret,  your 
father  and  you." 

"  I  don't  see  how  we  could  well  be  larger," 
protested  Margie  laughing. 


HER  MEMORY.  225 

Mrs.  Fosby  did,  though  of  course  she  said 
nothing.  She  thought  it  was  an  exceedingly 
generous  thing  in  her  to  desire  her  son-in- 
law's  re-marriage,  but  she  was  also  perfectly 
convinced  that  her  generosity  would  never 
be  called  upon  to  prove  itself  sincere. 

"  If  you  please,  ma'am,  could  I  speak  to 
you  for  a  minute?  "  said  Jane  Mary  at  the 
door.     Her  manner  betokened  agitation. 

"  What  is  it?  Is  it  a  secret?  Come  in," 
replied  Mrs.  Fosby,  attempting  to  hide  her 
curiosity. 

"A  secret! — lor,  no,  ma'am — (I  do  believe 
she's  afraider  than  ever  of  my  getting  mar- 
ried)— there's  been  a  telegram  for  the  dog- 
cart to  meet  Sir  Anthony  at  the  station." 

Margie  clapped  her  hands.  Mrs.  Fosby 
said:  "Indeed!" 

"  But  it's  the  reason  of  his  coming  back 
so  sudden,  ma'am!  'Tis  all  over  the  place 
ma'am.  Sir  Anthony  is  a-going  to  seat  him- 
self in  Parliament !  " 


226  HER   MEMORY. 

"  God  bless  my  heart!  "  cried  Mrs.  Fosby. 
She  half  rose,  staggering,  in  her  chair. 
"  What  do  you  know  of  such  matters,  Jane 
Mary? "  she  added  testily;  "  you're  only  a 
stupid  country  girl!  " 

"  Aged  thirty-seven,"  said  Jane  Mary 
coolly.  "  Fm  not  as  stupid,  Mrs.  Fosby,  as  I 
was  when  I  took  your  place,  ma'am.  And  if 
I  knowed  the  news  afore  you  knowed  it,  that's 
more  Sir  Anthony's  fault  than  mine,  ma'am!  " 

"  Don't  be  impertinent,"  replied  Mrs.  Fos- 
by imperiously.  The  mistress  who  says  that 
twice  to  a  maid,  and  she  had  said  it  many 
times,  is  lost.  Before  Jane  Mary  could  an- 
swer, as  she  always  did.  Sir  Anthony  himself 
walked  into  the  room.  Margaret  flew  to  him. 
"  Oh,  Anthony,  is  it  true?  "  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Fosby,  her  voice  shrill  with  agitation. 

He  did  not  enquire  what.  "  Oh,  yes,  true 
enough,"  he  replied. 

"  God  be  praised,"  said  Mrs.  Fosby. 

Her  son-in-law  looked  surprised.     "  In- 


HER   MEMORY.  227 

deed?  "  he  answered.  "Well,  be  it  so.  One 
has  to  be  thankful  for  everything,  I  suppose 
— even  for  positive  disagreeables  and  possible 
mistakes."  He  walked  to  the  window  and 
looked  out  on  the  park,  the  deer,  the  bleak, 
black  misery.  Suddenly  he  turned  to  Margie : 
"  You  foresaw  we  should  never  go  back," 
he  said. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

The  fight  of  Sir  Anthony  StoUard's  elec- 
tion has  long  remained  famous  in  the  annals 
of  Oakshire.  Competition  was  a  new  thing, 
but  the  Radical  candidate  and  his  mill-hands 
made  an  unexpected  display.  Unanswerable 
figures  were  grouped,  and  stories  invented  to 
prove  the  depravity  of  all  landlords,  and  espe- 
cially of  this  one.  Everybody  listened  to 
these  "arguments,"  many  believed  them: 
most  voted  for  the  lord  of  the  soil. 

Some  part  of  his  ultimate  success  was  due 
to  the  man  himself.  His  manner  was  modest 
and  sincere:  once  the  nervousness  surmount- 
ed, he  spoke  well.  Some  of  his  most  influ- 
ential supporters  were  annoyed,  they  had 
hoped  for  considerable  largesse  from  the  Lon- 
don banker;  they  had  to  confess,  in  the  end, 
228 


HER  MEMORY.  229 

that  Sir  Anthony  had  a  right  to  his  seat.  It 
was  all  very  new  and  strange,  and  exciting. 
Margie  would  have  liked  to  understand  more 
about  it;  she  dimly  realised  the  enormous 
gulf  between  all  this  vulgar  turmoil  and  the 
twilight  churches  of  Florence,  the  Madonnas, 
the  sunset  walks  to  San  Miniato. 

A  new  governess  was  provided,  "  a  very 
superior  and  highly  accomplished  gentle- 
woman, who  has  given  the  greatest  satisfac- 
tion to  her  former  employer,  Mrs.  Griene — 
the  Honourable  Mrs.  Griene,  you  know — the 

Espinard  family "    So  spoke  Mrs.  Fosby, 

to  whom  Anthony  had  wisely  conceded  the 
initiative.  All  stereotyped  subjects  were  with- 
in Miss  Bursley's  range.  She  said  her  inter- 
esting young  pupil  had  been  terribly  neg- 
lected. At  twelve  Gretna  Griene  had  done 
algebra  and  dynamics. 

The  day  before  his  definite  departure  to 
claim  the  seat  he  had  honestly  conquered  (for 
he  had  made  no  promises  beyond  those  he 


230  HER   MEMORY. 

would  be  able  to  keep),  Anthony  Stollard 
rode  across,  late  in  the  evening,  to  Thurdles, 
alone.  He  shuddered  as  he  walked,  with  his 
candle,  through  the  long-deserted  house.  In 
the  boudoir  he  found  his  wife's  picture  await- 
ing him;  it  had  waited  there  in  its  case  for 
weeks.  He  set  to  work  by  the  dim  candle- 
light unscrewing  the  lid:  he  took  the  portrait 
out  uninjured  and  gazed  at  it  thoughtfully. 
Then  he  hung  it  up  in  the  place  he  had  always 
reserved  for  it  while  painting  at  Florence,  and 
having  adjusted  it,  he  varnished  it  with  great 
care.  The  night  was  far  advanced  by  the  time 
he  had  finished.  Again  he  sat  down  and 
seemed  sunk  in  contemplation  of  the  portrait. 
Was  it  a  portrait?  He  smiled  gravely.  His 
memories  were  of  that  other  night — four 
years  ago — in  this  same  chamber:  except  for 
the  brief  hour  with  Margie,  he  had  never  since 
been  near  the  place.  He  could  not  have  come 
with  Margie  now,  whose  first  curiosity  was 
satisfied,  whose  memory  of  her  mother  was 


HER   MEMORY.  23 1 

mildly  asleep,  as  a  child's  should  be.  With 
him  also  sorrow  had  become  a  deep  and  calm 
regret.  Then  the  dull  winter  morning  crept 
between  the  shutters;  he  threw  them  open 
wide,  left  them  wide  open,  that  in  the  whole 
black  house  this  room  at  least  might  have 
such  warmth  and  brightness  as  were  possible, 
and  then,  turning  his  back  upon  it  all,  went 
out  with  the  key  in  his  pocket. 

And  the  London  papers  discussed  his  ap- 
pearance at  St.  Stephen's.  Sir  Anthony  Stol- 
lard  had  become  a  public  man.  They  got  a 
lot  of  information  about  his  private  life  from 
his  new  French  valet,  Frangois'  brother,  who 
had  been  in  his  service  a  few  weeks. 

When  he  went  to  see  Lady  Mary  Hunt, 
he  expected  that  she  would  worry  him  about 
his  acceptance  of  his  fate.  But  she  was  too 
wise  a  woman,  in  her  generation.  Only,  in 
the  course  of  their  conversation,  she  said  that 
she  liked  a  game  of  cards :  he  had  complained 


232  HER   MEMORY. 

of  the  dull  evenings  at  Stawell.  "  Why  don't 
you  play  piquet?  "  she  asked,  laughing.  "  No- 
body need  ever  be  dull  who  can  play  piquet. 
But  now,  you  will  have  no  time  for  dulness. 
We  shall  see  a  great  deal  of  you  in  London." 
And,  indeed,  he  frequently  went  to  her:  he 
found  her  immensely  useful,  with  her  large 
experience  of  society,  and  she  liked  to  show 
off  her  strength.  Of  course  he  now  spent 
much  of  his  time  in  London.  Mrs.  Fosby 
had  returned,  with  mutual  good-will,  to  her 
home  on  the  farther  side  of  Rusborough:  dur- 
ing the  summer  months,  and  the  shooting, 
whether  there  were  guests  to  entertain  or  not, 
she  could  take  her  place,  if  she  chose,  as  a  sort 
of  deputy  mistress  of  Stawell.  The  absence  of 
solid  foundation  to  her  claims  made  them  all 
the  more  vexatious;  there  was  irritation  in 
the  big  house,  and  discomfort.  Sir  Anthony, 
tormented  by  a  wasp's  nest  of  worries,  pre- 
tended not  to  notice.  He  was  occupied  with 
the  unwilling  discovery  that  his  agent,  the 


HER   MEMORY.  233 

faithful  Smithers,  cheated  him.  He  was  hard 
at  work,  also,  in  Parliament,  doggedly  study- 
ing blue  books  in  an  honest  endeavour  to  feel 
less  of  a  fool. 

For  the  greater  part  of  the  summer,  how- 
ever, the  whole  of  the  season,  Margie  and 
Miss  Bursley  shared  the  mansion  between 
them — that  is  to  say,  of  course,  they  lived  in 
a  couple  of  rooms.  Miss  Bursley's  system 
of  education  was  very  different  from  Miss 
Gray's,  or  Sir  Anthony's  You  had  to  do 
everything  exactly  as  she  wished  you  to  (Miss 
Gray  had  ceaselessly  commanded,  but  never 
enforced),  and  you  had  to  learn  everything 
exactly  as  she  had  learnt  it  herself.  Regular 
school  hours  filled  the  whole  day  with  sym- 
metrical boredom:  history  was  figures  (not 
pictures);  arithmetic  was  letters,  botany  was 
Latin,  "  science  "  was  Greek.  Miss  Bursley 
considered  herself  especially  strong  on  sci- 
ence, in  which  word  she  included  all  those 
facts    about   nature    that    nobody   wants    to 


234  HER   MEMORY. 

know.  Into  Margie's  colour-filled  world 
there  entered  the  letter  tt. 

Between  capacity  for  learning  and  ability 
for  teaching  there  exists,  of  course,  no  inevi- 
table connection.  Miss  Bursley  had  picked  all 
the  apples  ofif  the  tree  of  learning,  but  she  set 
them  as  dried  and  uncooked  pippins  before 
her  pupil,  in  a  row.  The  pupil  was  a  proud 
child,  and  only  cried  in  private. 

England,  and  especially  the  English  coun- 
try, however,  brought  her  many  compensa- 
tions. Amongst  these  riding  was  chief.  She 
had  a  pony  at  Stawell,  Puck;  he  was  her  only 
confidant,  and,  besides  one  or  two  of  the  serv- 
ants, her  only  friend.  The  manes  of  ponies 
are  designed  to  wipe  children's  tears. 

And  Puck's  tiny  hoofs  soon  learnt  that 
one  of  their  chief  objects  in  life  must  be  to  gal- 
lop across  country  to  Thurdles.  The  coach- 
man who  accompanied  his  young  mistress, 
though  limiting  gallops,  had  no  objection  to 
this  particular  route.     The  care-taker  at  the 


HER  MEMORY.  235 

smaller  house  was  his  sister:  he  liked  to  go 
and  complain  to  her  of  the  other  servants  at 
Stawell. 

While  the  two  sat,  amicably  irritable,  over 
their  teacups,  Margie  would  roam  about  the 
house,  dreaming  dreams.  One  room  was 
locked;  but,  in  contrast  to  the  others,  its 
blinds  and  shutters  were  completely  drawn 
back:  by  climbing  on  to  a  balustrade  outside 
the  bay  window,  she  could  obtain  various 
views  of  the  inside :  by  pressing  hard  against  a 
stone  pillar,  she  could  see  the  picture — the 
Florentine  picture,  in  full.  Often  she  would 
sit  thus,  huddled  against  that  pillar,  for  a  long 
time:  she  hardly  knew  why.  She  liked  it. 
She  liked  imagining  all  sorts  of  impossible 
memories.  The  beauty  of  the  picture  awed 
and  delighted  her.  She  had  hidden  away  her 
grandmother's  locket  with  the  pitiful  photo- 
graph. Once,  suddenly,  her  father  had  asked 
her  why  she  never  wore  it.  "  I  don't  like  it," 
she  had  answered;  and  then,  as  a  frightened 


236  HER   MEMORY. 

after-thought,  lest  she  should  distress  him: 
"  It  isn't  a  very  pretty  locket,  is  it,  papa?  '' 

He  brought  her  an  expensive  one  from 
London,  in  his  scornful  kindness.  And  he 
talked,  when  he  came  down  for  Sunday,  of 
the  horses  and  dogs,  and  the  farm. 

For  himself,  he  was  happy  and  occupied, 
pleased  with  his  patent  success.  Such  a  num- 
ber of  new  interests  and  occupations  crowded 
around  him,  he  could  not  but  fill  up  his  time. 
Once  or  twice  he  had  down  a  lot  of  people:  it 
was  a  bore,  but  it  had  to  be  done.  He  rather 
liked  it.  Lady  Mary  came  for  a  few  days,  with 
her  husband.  Mr.  Hunt  was  very  tottery, 
made  of  millions:  it  was  amusing  to  watch 
the  passages  of  arms  between  Lady  Mary  and 
the  quasi  mistress  of  the  mansion.  But  there 
must  always  be  a  great  deal  of  bother,  espe- 
cially for  a  man,  in  the  managing — well,  no, 
let  us  say  in  the  supporting — a  big  household 
like  Stawell.  The  upper  servants  agreed  with 
Sir  Anthony.    They  couldn't  understand  what 


HER  MEMORY.  237 

he  wanted  with  Mrs.  Fosby  at  all.  A  terrible 
young  footman  penetrated  into  his  presence, 
and  proved  that  his  brother's  most  estimable 
housekeeper  deducted  one-tenth  from  the 
wages,  all  round:  he  got  a  new  housekeeper, 
and  had  everything  paid  by  the  agent.  The 
agent  deducted  one-eighth.  And  Anthony 
thought  of  old  Lord  Fowey's  favourite  story : 
"  What?  Discharge  my  steward?  And  let  a 
second  pauper  steal  himself  as  rich!  " 

It  was  tiresome  to  come  home  to  this  sort 
of  worries,  but  it  was  not  altogether  disagree- 
able. The  pleasantest  and  simplest  of  human 
beings  likes  to  be  more  than  he  was.  And 
there  is  something  not  altogether  unsatisfac- 
tory in  the  thought  of  worries  awaiting  you 
at  Stawell.  Besides,  Anthony  was  an  eager 
philanthropist,  a  believer  in,  and  originator  of, 
various  private  and  political  reforms.  A  posi- 
tion of  importance  inevitably  takes  possession 
of  him  who  acquired  it.    It  is  a  beautiful  thing 

to  paint  human  saints,  but  it  is  a  far  more 
16 


238  HER  MEMORY. 

beautiful  thing  to  feel  a  bit  of  a  saint  yourself. 
Quite  honestly,  energetically,  doing  his  best, 
doing  good,  Anthony  had  taken  the  gilded 
cross  upon  his  shoulders:  if  honestly,  har- 
moniously, it  shifted  round  to  his  breast,  so 
much  the  better  for  him. 

On  a  Friday  afternoon  in  November — it 
was  the  seventeenth  of  the  month,  at  that  mo- 
ment of  decline  when  a  dull  day  grows  sooth- 
ingly duller — Sir  Anthony  Stollard  arrived  at 
the  little  Thurdles  station.  The  dogcart,  sum- 
moned by  telegram,  was  in  waiting.  Sir  An- 
thony had  been  expected  to-morrow,  if  at  all. 
He  had  not  come  down  for  the  last  two  or 
three  weeks. 

He  started  at  a  good  pace  along  the  high 
road,  as  usual — nervous  men  like  rapid  driv- 
ing— but  presently  he  swung  ofif  to  the  left, 
with  a  swift  impatience  which  doubled  up  the 
young  groom  on  the  back  seat.  The  latter,  a 
new  servant  from  beyond  Rusborough,  stared 


HER   MEMORY.  239 

in  astonishment  at  the  wrong  road  lengthen- 
ing under  him.  Not  going  home!  Such  a 
thing  had  never  happened  before! 

No;  it  had  never  happened  before.  Many 
v^eeks  had  elapsed  since  Anthony  had  last 
been  near  the  old  house  at  Thurdles.  When 
down  at  Stawell,  he  preferred  to  drive  in  the 
opposite  direction,  especially  with  strangers. 
He  could  not  have  endured  the  idea  of  any- 
thing being  altered  about  the  place — there 
was  nothing  altered  about  its  associations — 
but  he  shrank  from  the  thought  of  its  un- 
changing existence  as  he  had  shrunk  away 
yonder  in  Florence. 

The  seventeenth  of  November! — it  was 
his  wife's  birthday.  In  his  London  chambers, 
with  the  yellow  fog  all  around  him,  he  had 
suddenly  resolved  not  to  wait  till  to-morrow, 
to  go  down  into  the  country  at  once,  with  an 
earlier  train,  to  drive  first  to  Thurdles.  He 
had  telegraphed,  at  the  last  moment,  to  be 
met  at  the  little  side-station.     He  now  drove 


240  HER  MEMORY. 

along  the  short  curve  of  dreary  road  in  the 
fall  of  the  autumn  day. 

There  was  a  grey  vapour  in  the  air,  half 
mist,  half  drizzle;  it  clung  about  the  gaunt, 
black  trees.  The  avenue  of  Thurdles  looked 
forlorn  and  dripping.  He  shuddered,  with  a 
slight  irritation,  as  he  drew  up  at  the  back 
entrance,  half  wondering  why  he  came. 

But  he  passed  down  the  long  passage  with 
a  heart  full  of  sweetness  and  tenderness.  Lin- 
gering on  the  threshold,  he  gently  unlocked 
the  boudoir-door. 

In  the  heavy  twilight  outside,  in  the  shad- 
ow of  the  pillar,  Margie  shrank  back,  with  a 
gasp  of  amazement,  her  heart  in  her  mouth! 
For  the  immovable  door  of  the  boudoir  had 
moved,  and  her  father  had  come  into  the 
room! 

Her  father!  She  knew  he  avoided  the 
place;  she  reckoned  on  his  tacit  dislike  of  it. 
Once,  under  protest,  he  had  come  there  for 
her  sake.     The  last  thing  she  would  have 


HER   MEMORY.  24 1 

imagined  possible  was  his  appearing  at  this 
moment,  when  she  believed  him  to  be  in 
London. 

She,  herself,  had  not  come  often,  espe- 
cially of  late,  but  to-day  the  anniversary  had 
attracted  her.  The  day  was  very  dull  at  Sta- 
well,  the  atmosphere  very  unsympathetic. 
After  her  drawing-lesson,  while  Miss  Bursley 
was  chatting  with  the  master  from  Rusbor- 
ough,  Margie  had  slipped  away,  saddled  her 
pony  unnoticed,  and  torn  across  country,  in 
the  early  twilight,  to  her  window,  driven  on 
by  an  unreasoning  impulse — ^just  a  glimpse  of 
the  picture,  and  back! 

She  could  not  have  defined  her  attitude 
towards  the  portrait,  or  the  fascination  it  ex- 
ercised over  her.  Nor  could  she,  now  grown 
old  enough  to  consider  such  matters,  have 
explained  why  the  tender  memory  of  earlier 
years  had  more  recently  become,  under  these 
changes  of  circumstance,  a  yearning  which,  at 
periods,  was  almost  a  pain.  Though  a  fanciful, 


242  HER   MEMORY. 

she  was  not  a  sentimental  child.  But  some- 
times she  could  not  help  realising  that  the  ex- 
change from  Italy  to  England,  while  drawing 
her  father  away  from  her,  had  brought  the 
absence  of  her  mother  too  cruelly  near. 

She  hung  against  the  casement  in  terror, 
crouching  back  under  the  shadow  of  the  wall. 
She  dared  not  move  lest  he  should  notice  her. 
She  could  trust  to  the  black  corner  to  hide 
her,  in  the  thickening  twilight,  if  only  she 
made  herself  small  enough,  pressing  close  to 
the  pillar,  keeping  strenuously  still.  He 
would  go  soon,  she  hoped.  He  was  looking 
at  the  picture.  He  could  not  stay  long  in 
that  room. 

When  she  cautiously  peeped  out,  she 
could  see  him  standing  there  immovable,  with 
his  head  uplifted.  She  shrank  back  again. 
The  wall,  like  the  air,  was  very  damp  and 
clammy.  He  must  not  find  her  there.  She 
had  learnt,  with  too  docile  affection,  Mrs. 
Fosby's  lesson  of  unselfishness.    She  must  get 


HER   MEMORY.  243 

away  before  he  saw  her.  Still  he  stood,  in 
the  gathering  dusk,  immovable.  She  could 
vaguely  trace  the  outlines  of  his  figure,  of  the 
portrait  looking  down  upon  the  face  she  could 
not  see. 

Suddenly  she  understood  that  she  must 
act  at  once.  She  must  get  home  before  her 
father.  To  move  along  the  balustrade  was 
more  than  she  dared  venture.  She  felt  with 
her  feet  for  a  resting-place  below  the  pillar; 
in  doing  so  she  slipped,  caught  herself,  and 
hung,  panting,  by  her  fingers,  pressed  hard 
on  the  pillar-foot. 

In  that  position  she  could  not  remain 
more  than  a  moment.  She  clenched  her  teeth 
hard,  afraid  that  the  pain  at  her  finger-tips 
would  cause  her  to  cry  out.  She  was  still 
more  afraid  that,  if  she  dropped,  the  thud  of 
her  fall  would  betray  her.  There  was  no  time 
to  reflect.  In  another  second,  with  the  blood 
spurting  from  the  pressure,  she  let  go. 

Her  right  knee  struck  against  some  pro- 


244  ^^^  MEMORY. 

jecting  stonework  as  she  fell.  The  distance 
from  the  ground  was  not  much,  but  it  was 
enough  to  do  mischief.  She  limped  away  as 
well  as  she  could  to  a  shrubbery,  where  her 
pony  awaited  her.  She  untied  him,  and  hur- 
ried across  the  wet  grass  in  her  haste  to  be 
gone. 

But  before  she  had  ridden  far,  she  found 
that  her  injured  knee  could  not  endure  the 
pain  of  its  position  in  the  saddle.  She  was 
compelled  to  slacken  her  pace,  and  the  dread 
increased  upon  her  of  her  father's  pursuing 
dogcart  wheels. 

She  struck  off  into  a  lane  as  soon  as  she 
could,  and  gasped  with  momentary  relief. 
But  the  road  she  must  now  follow  would  take 
her  a  longer  round.  She  struggled  to  bear  the 
pain  as  she  rode,  in  constantly  alternating 
spells,  her  pony  fretting  under  the  unwonted 
checks,  and  cruelly  increasing  her  sufferings 
by  perpetual  jumps  and  bumps.  She  set  her 
face,  white  and  miserable,  resolved  not  to  cry. 


HER  MEMORY.  245 

The  drizzle,  which  had  long  hesitated,  settled 
into  rain.  More  and  more  she  was  compelled 
to  walk  her  pony.  She  was  still  a  long  dis- 
tance from  home. 

When  Anthony  reached  Stawell,  he  went 
straight,  as  was  his  custom,  to  the  school- 
room. Miss  Bursley  sat  there,  still  in  ani- 
mated contest  with  the  drawing-master. 

"  Sir  Anthony,  you  will  judge  between 
us,"  said  the  governess,  who  had  none  of 
those  considerations  which  she  collectively 
dubbed  "  nervousness."  "  Mr.  Pimberly  is 
trying  to  convince  me — nobody  ever  con- 
vinces me — that  the  stupider  a  mother  is,  the 
better  for  her  child." 

"  I  did  not  say  that,"  protested  poor, 
timid,  self-assertive,  little  Mr.  Pimberly. 
"  Few  women,  I  said,  are  capable " — he 
bowed — "  of  combining  study  with  physical 
care." 

"  And  we  governesses,  pray?  "  cried  Miss 
Bursley. 


246  HER   MEMORY. 

The  drawing-master  grew  red.  "  There 
are  exceptions,"  he  faltered,  "  which 
prove " 

"  Sir  Anthony,  I  trust  I  am  an  excep- 
tion! "  persisted  Miss  Bursley. 

"  Margie  would  bear  witness  to  that,"  re- 
plied Anthony,  smiling.  ^'  By  the  bye,  where 
is  she?    She  was  not  at  the  door." 

*'  I  knew  nothing  of  your  coming,"  replied 
Miss  Bursley,  aggrieved.  "  The  servants  (she 
meant  the  housekeeper)  tell  us  nothing.  Mar- 
gie has  gone  to  wash  her  hands  for  tea.  I  will 
send  for  her." 

But  in  a  minute  or  two  the  chambermaid 
came  back  with  the  news  that  Margie  was  no- 
where to  be  found.  Her  pony  was  missing. 
A  stable-boy  said  she  had  gone  out  for  a 
ride. 

"Gone  out  for  a  ride!"  exclaimed  An- 
thony, immediately  distressed.  "  At  this  time 
of  day!  In  this  weather!  Whereto?"  He 
turned  on  Miss  Bursley. 


HER   MEMORY.  247 

"  I  am  sure  I  have  no  idea!  "  cried  Miss 
Bursley  in  an  agitated  voice.  "  She  is  very- 
self-willed,  Sir  Anthony.  It  is  very  difficult 
to  control  all  her  movements.  I  had  given 
her  a  task  to  prepare  before  tea!  " 

"  The  child  must  be  found,"  said  An- 
thony. He  reflected  for  a  moment.  "  Bet- 
ter not  make  a  fuss.  She  will  be  back  be- 
fore tea,  I  dare  say.  We  can  always  wait 
till  then." 

"  Unless  I  could  be  of  any  use,  perhaps  I 
had  better  be  going.  Sir  Anthony,"  said  the 
uncomfortable  drawing-master. 

"  Oh  certainly.  Good  night,"  said  Sir  An- 
thony. He  stood  for  a  moment  looking  at 
Miss  Bursley  curiously,  as  if  he  would  like  to 
say  something.  But  he  restrained  himself, 
and,  in  silence,  walked  out  of  the  room  and 
downstairs. 

In  the  lighted  entrance  hall  he  met  Mar- 
gie, lame,  dripping,  bedraggled — utterly  worn 
out. 


248  HER  MEMORY. 

"  Child,  where  have  you  been?  " 

She  did  not  answer,  only  looked  at  him 
piteously. 

"  Where  have  you  been?  Margie,  I  am 
very  angry  with  you!  " 

The  tears  she  had  kept  back  sprang  to  her 
eyes. 

"What  absurd  pranks  are  these!  I  can- 
not understand  Miss  Bursley.  I  insist  upon 
knowing  where  you  have  been!  " 

She  swayed  forward,  and  he  ran  towards 
her,  just  in  time  to  catch  her  in  his  arms. 

"  Why,  bless  you,  Sir  Anthony,  she's  only 
fainted,"  said  the  housekeeper.  "  She'll  be  all 
right  again  in  a  minute  or  two." 

And  so  she  was,  though  her  knee  took  a 
fortnight  to  heal.  She  told  that  she  had 
ridden  off  for  the  sake  of  the  ride.  She  said 
nothing  of  Thurdles.  "  Your  father  is  morbid, 
my  child,"  had  said  Mrs.  Fosby.  "  Above  all 
things,  you  must  never  encourage  his  mor- 
bidity!   And  keep  your  own  counsel — except 


HER  MEMORY.  249 

when  you  come  to  me — it's  the  best  thing  for 
a  widower's  child !  " 

And  so  it  came  about  that  Margaret  Stol- 
lard  was  sent  to  boarding-school. 


CHAPTER   XIV. 

The  school  of  Mrs.  Fosby's  selecting  was 
inevitably  ultra-select.  In  fact,  it  had  reached 
that  stage  of  selectness  in  which  a  teacher 
confers  a  favour  by  admitting  a  pupil.  The 
number  of  Margie's  companions  never  ex- 
ceeded ten:  and  the  money  expended  on  these 
young  ladies'  education  would  have  sufficed 
to  bring  up  half-a-dozen  of  their  equals  with 
ease.  Still,  whatever  ignorance  or  ineptitude 
you  may  ultimately  return  to,  there  is  always 
a  satisfaction  in  remembering  that  large  sums 
have  been  wasted  on  making  you  what  you 
are.  And  modern  education,  whether  cheap 
or  expensive — it  is  only  cheap  when  other 
people  pay  for  it — has  always  for  finale,  the 
apparently  unalterable  puzzle,  how  it  should 

have  been  possible  to  teach  anyone  such  a 
250 


HER   MEMORY.  25 1 

quantity  of  subjects  and  leave  him  knowing 
so  little  in  the  end. 

With  Margie,  however,  the  result  was  of 
no  importance.  Mrs.  Fosby's  secret  opinion 
remained,  although  she  herself  was  unaware 
of  it,  that  the  less  a  woman  knew,  beyond 
certain  accomplishments,  the  better  for  every- 
body; her  own  collection  of  inaccuracies,  mis- 
conceptions and  mistakes,  historical,  geo- 
graphical, ethnographical,  was  curiously  com- 
plete. Her  granddaughter,  who  could  distin- 
guish between  Guiana  and  Guinea,  between 
Socrates  and  Solon,  had  always  seemed  to  her 
over-educated,  as  a  child.  Two  nieces  of  Lord 
Fowey  were  among  the  pupils  at  Miss 
Grough's.  The  arrangement  was  in  every 
way  a  desirable  one.  Anthony  approved  of 
the  beautiful  house  and  grounds.  He  had  no 
doubt  his  little  daughter  would  be  happier 
among  these  pleasant  surroundings  and  com- 
panions. Her  reticence  and  carelessness  dis- 
turbed him.    She  was  a  strange  child,  not  as 


252  HER   MEMORY. 

docile  and  affectionate  as  he  had  hoped. 
Doubtless  Lady  Mary,  who  warmly  approved 
of  the  school-plan,  was  right:  children  need 
a  congenial  "miheu";  girls  especially  must 
grow  up  in  a  circle  of  similar  acquaintances, 
planted  like  apple-trees  in  an  orchard,  each  in 
the  same  little  paling  of  proprieties,  rooted  in 
prejudice,  painted  white  with  pretence. 

When  Margie  had  been  away  for  a  few 
weeks  in  her  new  home,  Mrs.  Fosby  aston- 
ished everybody  by  quietly  abandoning  the 
neighbourhood  of  Rusborough,  and  taking  a 
house  within  two  miles  of  the  school.  Noth- 
ing could  be  more  disconcerting.  Had  not 
the  object  of  Mrs.  Fosby's  existence  been  the 
achievement  of  "  county  "  rank?  Had  not 
she  almost  succeeded  in  making  people  think 
and  speak  of  her  only  as  the  mother-in-law  of 
Sir  Anthony  Stollard,  the  mistress,  to  all  prac- 
tical purposes,  of  Stawell?  And  now,  in  the 
moment  of  her  triumph,  she  resigned  all  this 
glory,  and  went  to  live  where  she  was  no- 


HER   MEMORY.  253 

body,  where  socially  she  must  begin  all  over 
again.  Love  achieves  all  things.  Not  only 
can  it  turn  beads  into  diamonds,  but  it  can 
leave  them,  while  giving  them  the  beauty  of 
diamonds,  beads. 

So  Margie  went  to  spend  her  Sundays 
with  her  grandmother.  The  friendship  of  the 
two  grew  closer:  the  old  lady  liked  nothing 
better  than  to  tell  of  days  when  another  Mar- 
garet's presence  filled  her  life,  and  Margie, 
alone  and  feeling  lonely,  clung  to  these  remi- 
niscences with  a  too  romantic  interest.  On 
great  occasions,  as  soon  as  a  longer  holiday 
left  her  free,  the  child  was  allowed  to  join  her 
father,  and  delightful  beyond  words  were 
these  sunlit  vacations,  at  Stawell,  or  on  the 
French  sea-side,  or  among  Swiss  and  Italian 
lakes.  Busy  as  Anthony's  life  now  was,  with 
the  constant  inevitable  activity  of  a  man  be- 
fore the  public,  these  periods  of  rest  he  de- 
voted entirely  to  his  daughter,  and  sometimes 

it  almost  seemed  as  if  the  Florentine  existence 
17 


254  HER  MEMORY. 

revived.  But  it  was  not  so,  and  they  knew 
it.  Sir  Anthony  was  a  rising  poHtician,  fan- 
tastic, many  thoughts,  and  not  always  suffi- 
ciently matter-of-fact,  but  a  man  of  heart 
and  brain  ;  and  Margie  was  growing  into 
a  woman,  a  serious  young  creature,  over- 
weighted with  loyalty  to  early  traditions  and 
responsibility  towards  her  father  and  herself. 
They  could  neither  of  them  be  young  again, 
nor  sad  with  the  old  affectionate  sadness. 
Life  had  grown  much  more  real,  much  more 
raw.  But  they  clung  to  each  other  all  the 
more  tenderly,  too  anxiously  dissembling  that 
constant  solicitude  for  the  other's  happiness 
which  was  the  mainspring  of  every  important 
action.  And  they  misunderstood  each  other, 
or,  rather,  Anthony  misunderstood. 

He  returned  to  London  after  one  of  these 
holidays,  a  delightful  three  weeks  at  Beuzeval, 
and  on  an  early  occasion  went  to  visit  Lady 
Mary  Hunt.  He  had  heard  that  her  husband 
was  failing,  and  she  calmly  admitted  the  fact. 


HER   MEMORY.  255 

"  I  have  been  a  good  wife  to  him,"  she 
said,  "  I  feel  confident  of  that.  I  read  him 
the  Economist,  of  evenings:  it  is  not  at  all 
amusing,  and  anyone  with  half  a  head  can  see 
what  rubbish  it  all  is,  besides.  If  the  world 
were  half  honest,  my  dear  Anthony,  banking 
would  simply  be  an  impossible  trade.  For- 
tunately for  us,  the  world  isn^t  honest.  Try 
some  of  these  grapes.  They're  exceedingly 
good." 

"  But  he  isn't "  began  Anthony. 

"  Oh,  yes,  he  is.  He's  had  things  of 
late  would  try  any  man.  That  terrible  busi- 
ness of  his  daughter,  and  his  dropping  out 
of  Parliament,  and  missing  the  baronetcy. 
Although  I  tell  him  that,  if  he  will  only  live 
another  year,  I  shall  get  him  the  baro- 
netcy." 

"  If  he  will  only  live  another  year ?  " 

"  Yes.  Dear  me,  Anthony,  I  cannot  un- 
derstand the  newspapers!  You  always  seem 
to  me  the  most  literal  person  I  know.     Of 


256  HER   MEMORY. 

course  I  put  it  more  prettily.  I  should  have 
liked  Thomas  to  have  his  epitaph  exactly  as 
he  wants  it.  Don't  think  me  unfeeling.  / 
can't  help  it.  He's  an  old  man,  getting  on 
for  eighty.  Don't  look  at  me  in  that  way, 
Anthony.  I  can't  bear  it  from  you!  "  She 
stopped  speaking  :  her  lips  trembled  :  she 
plucked  nervously  at  the  naked  grape-stalk 
she  held  in  her  hand. 

"  There  is  one  thing  I  can  never  under- 
stand," ventured  Anthony  suddenly.  *'  Why 
did  you  not  want  him  to  get  in  for  Rusbor- 
ough?  " 

"  How  long  ago  is  it  since  you  lost  your 
wife?  "  she  answered. 

"  Eight  years,"  he  replied,  taken  aback. 

"  As  long  as  that?  Then  Margaret  is  now 
sixteen?  " 

"  Yes.  Next  year  she  will  be  leaving 
school  and  coming  home.  I  want  to  give  her 
a  finishing  governess — a  sort  of  companion, 
to  poli^  her  up.     She  is  a  dear  girl,  but  I 


HER   MEMORY.  257 

think  she  wants  a  httle  polishing."  He 
sighed. 

"  How  serious  you  look,"  she  said  laugh- 
ing.   "  The  polish  will  come." 

"  It's  not  that,"  he  repHed  hastily,  "  but  I 
am  anxious  about  her.  A  marriageable 
daughter  at  home!  It  is  a  great  responsi- 
bility." 

"  You  may  well  say  that  in  this  house," 
she  answered  gravely;  then,  seeing  the  sub- 
ject was  distasteful  to  him,  she  led  away  from 
it.  "  And  what  does  Mrs.  Fosby  say  to  los- 
ing Margaret?  "  she  asked. 

"  Haven't  you  heard?  "  He  looked  up 
astonished  from  moody  contemplation  of  his 
boots.  "  My  mother-in-law  has  had  a  stroke 
— two,  I  fear.  She  is  half  childish,  and  quite 
inarticulate.  There  are  days  that  she  thinks 
Margie  is  her  maid." 

"  Dear  me,"  said  Lady  Mary  musingly. 
*'  Dear  me — how  old  old  people  grow."  She 
looked  out  of  window  at  the  rusty  trees  in 


258  HER   MEMORY. 

the  square.  "  When  you  married,"  she  said 
presently,  "  your  wife  was  barely  twenty.  She 
was  one  year  younger  than  I." 

"  Yes,"  he  answered,  "  I  know."  He  was 
surprised  to  find  he  did  not  more  resent  these 
references  to  his  wife.  Lady  Mary's  voice 
was  gentle;  he  was  sorry  for  her. 

"  Is  there  anything  of  interest  doing  in  the 
House?  "  she  said. 

"  The  House  is  always  interesting,"  he  re- 
plied, "  or  never.  It  all  depends  upon  one's 
attitude  towards  the  game  we  play  there." 

"  I  think  it  is  always  interesting." 

"  And  Margie,  never."     He  laughed. 

"  Margie  is  a  child.  I  can  understand 
that  during  her  Easter  holidays  she  wanted 
to  talk  of  other  things  than  politics." 

"  Yes,  of  course.  Still,  I  know  girls  who 
do  care  about  what  happens,  in  a  general 
way." 

"  You  have  brought  up  Margie  very  dif- 
ferently— to  take  an  interest  in  art." 


HER   MEMORY.  259 

"That  was  many  years  ago.  Do  you 
know,  I  don't  think  she  takes  an  interest  in 
art." 

"  Well,  what  then?  "  said  Lady  Mary,  in- 
dolently eating  more  grapes. 

"  When  I  ask  her,  she  answers  little.  She 
is  most  painstaking,  and  a  little  punctilious. 
She  always  seems  pre-occupied  about  doing 
her  duty.  She  wants  to  be  good  and  affec- 
tionate, and  make  people  love  her.  Well,  she 
succeeds.  But  sometimes  I  fear  the  school  is 
too  proper — too  religious!  " 

"  Anthony!     For  shame!  " 

"  You  mustn't  misunderstand  me.  You 
mustn't  pretend  to  misunderstand  me.  Mar- 
gie is  a  dear  child.  I  love  her  more  than  any- 
thing on  earth.  I  would  do  anything  for  her 
happiness.  Anything  and  everything  she 
cared  to  ask." 

"  No  wonder  she  is  afraid  to  speak." 
His  exaggeration  nettled  her.  "  Would 
you  give  up  your  career  in   Parliament,   if 


26o  HER  MEMORY. 

she  said  she  preferred  to  return  to  Flor- 
ence? " 

"  She  would  never  want  me  to  do  what 
she  didn't  think  right.  As  for  the  career  in 
Parliament,  you  know  why  I  took  it  up?  " 

"  Dear  me,  no?  "  said  Lady  Mary  inno- 
cently. 

"  Yes,  you  do,  Mary  " — she  started  ever 
so  slightly — "  of  course  I  had  to,  and  all  that 
sort  of  thing.  Well,  I  don't  object;  it  might 
have  turned  out  ever  so  much  worse.  And  if 
poor  Henry  knows,  he's  satisfied.  But,  as  for 
Florence "  he  paused. 

She  waited,  saying  nothing. 

"  Pooh!  "  he  exclaimed  scornfully,  in  quite 
a  different  tone,  "  what  right  should  I  have 
had  to  go  back  to  Florence?     If  I  had  been 

a  real  painter — if — if "    Again  he  halted, 

then,  quite  gently,  "  But  I  should  certainly  do 
everything  I  could  to  make  Margie  happy," 
he  said.     He  took  his  hat,  and  got  up  to  go. 

Lady  Mary  walked  with  him  to  the  door; 


HER   MEMORY.  261 

there  she  shook  hands.  "  Anthony,"  she  said, 
"  there  are  men  whose  entire  Hves  are  ruined 
by  bad  women,  and  men  whose  entire  lives  are 
ruined  by  good.  You  are  not  of  the  bad 
women  sort.     Good-bye." 

As  he  meditatively  descended  the  stairs, 
she  bent  over  the  banisters:  ''  Come  and  see 
me  again,"  she  said. 


CHAPTER   XV. 

A  FEW  weeks  later  he  received,  at  Stawell, 
the  tidings  of  Mr.  Hunt's  decease.  He  wrote 
Lady  Mary  a  curt  letter  of  condolence;  he 
was  awkward  about  it,  but  then,  he  detested 
letter  writing.  For  only  answer  he  got  the 
following:  "  You  can't  write  letters.  You 
had  much  better  have  come." 

So,  understanding  her  to  be  annoyed,  he 
went  up  to  London  to  see  her.  She  looked 
handsome  in  her  mourning;  the  black  toned 
down  her  rather  florid  style.  She  was  very 
self-possessed  and  natural.  "  He  thanked 
me,  before  he  died,"  she  said;  "  I  liked  that." 

"  And  what  are  you  going  to  do  now?  " 
he  asked  presently. 

"  Get  through  my  period  of  retirement  as 

best  I  can.    I  don't  pretend  to  like  that,  and 
262 


I 


HER   MEMORY.  263 

I  certainly  sha'n't  prolong  it.  Thomas  was 
very  considerate — always.  Do  you  know,  he 
actually  as  good  as  asked  my  pardon  for  dying 
in  the  season.  I — I  couldn't  help  crying  a 
little  at  his  saying  that,  but  I  told  him  I — I 
hoped  he  would  live  till  it  was  over.  He  very 
nearly  did." 

"  You  are  going  down  to  Princingham?  " 

Princingham  was  Mr.  Hunt's  ancestral 
castle. 

"How  inquisitive  you  are!  As  if  you 
cared!  No,  of  all  things  in  the  world,  not 
Princingham.  Not  seclusion  in  the  country! 
A  solitary  black  figure  among  the  fields  and 
cows!  That  needs  an  elegiac  state  of  mind. 
I  shall  go  to  one  of  the  quiet  Normandy  sea 
places,  not  too  far  from  a  noisier  one !  *  Et 
puis,  on  verra! '  " 

"  Quite  so,"  he  answered.  He  was  think- 
ing of  his  own  mourning,  sixteen  years  ago. 

"What  do  you  mean?  "  She  flared  up  a 
little;  his  tone  displeased  her.    "  I  don't  make 


264  HER   MEMORY. 

believe.  Of  all  things  I  hate  pretence;  and 
pose,  which  is  half  pretence.  The  Duchess 
of  Birmingham  came  in  crying  yesterday — 
the  dowager,  you  know,  my  aunt — very  loud 
and  fussy,  as  usual.  '  Oh,  my  poor  dear 
Mary,'  she  shouted,  '  I  am  so  grieved! '  '  Fm 
not,'  I  said.  I  couldn't  help  myself.  C'etait 
plus  fort  que  moi." 

"  That  was  pretence,"  replied  Anthony; 
"  you  didn't  mean  it." 

"  Anthony,  how  clever  you  are!  Well,  no, 
I  didn't,  quite.  Do  you  know,  I  suppose  I 
had  better  call  you  *  Sir  Anthony  '  now?  " 

He  got  up  to  go,  feeling  very  uncomfort- 
able. 

"  Thomas  has  been  so  good  to  me,"  she 
said,  "  to  the  last.    I  suppose  you've  heard?  " 

"  No,  I  have  heard  nothing.  What  are 
you  alluding  to?  " 

"  He  has  left  me  all  his  money." 

"  And  his  daughter?  " 

*'  Not  one  penny.     He  never  forgave  her, 


HER   MEMORY.  265 

never  spoke  of  her  or  wrote  to  her.  He  was  a 
vain  man,  and  she  had  wounded,  almost  mur- 
dered, his  vanity." 

"  Well,"  said  Anthony  reflectively,  "  good- 
bye." 

He  went  down  to  Bournemouth,  before 
returning,  and  took  Margie  for  a  walk  in  the 
pine  woods.  "  At  Christmas  you  will  be  com- 
ing home  for  good,"  he  said;  "  what  a  change 
that  will  make!  " 

"  A  very  great  change,"  said  Margaret 
gravely.  He  glanced  askance  at  the  grown- 
up daughter  beside  him.  She  was  not  tall, 
delicately  featured,  rather  insignificant,  he 
feared.  But  she  had  thoughtful,  kindly  brown 
eyes,  and  a  face  that  good  men  looked  at 
again. 

"  You  like  the  prospect,  surely?  "  he  said, 
with  a  tinge  of  irritation.  Perhaps  that  fright- 
ened her,  she  was  always  too  afraid  of  hurting 
him. 


266  HER   MEMORY. 

"  Oh,  yes,  yes,"  she  answered  hastily,  "  but 
I  was  thinking  of — the  responsibility.  I  only 
hope,  father,  that  I  shall  not  disappoint  you. 
You  see,  I  shall  have  nobody  to  tell  me  what 
to  do."    Her  voice  was  even  graver. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  said — to  lead 
her  on,  for  he  knew. 

"  Other  girls  have  their  mothers,  you  see. 
Lucy  and  Ermyntrude  Dellys,  for  instance; 
they  are  leaving  school  with  me.  And  when 
they  speak  of  their  plans,  it's  ^  mother  this,' 
and  '  mother  that,'  all  the  time." 

"H'm!  Mrs.  Dellys  doesn't  strike  me  as 
a  particularly  desirable  parent.  She's  about 
the  most  foolish  woman  I  know." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Margaret,  "  a  foolish 
mother  is  better  than  none." 

"  Do  you  really  think  so?  "  He  stopped 
in  the  darkness  of  the  firwood,  and  looked  at 
her,  astonished.  It  was  as  if  a  revelation  had 
suddenly  been  accorded  him. 

"  I  do  not  know,  father,"  replied  Margaret 


HER  MEMORY,  267 

wearily.  "  I  am  speaking  of  things  I  know 
nothing  about.  Only  I  could  not  help  think- 
ing what  a  help  it  must  be.  When  Lucy 
doesn't  know  what  to  do  about  anything,  she 
says, '  I'll  ask  mother,'  and  goes  to  sleep." 

"  Don't  you  go  to  sleep?  " 

"  Oh,  yes.  But  sometimes  I  lie  awake, 
looking  for  my  answer." 

"  Well,  I  daresay  when  you  find  it,  it's  a 
better  one  than  Mrs.  Dellys's." 

"  I  don't  know,"  Margie  sighed.  "  One 
never  does  know  about  one's  own  answer. 
Very  often,  for  instance,  grandmamma  didn't 
agree  with  me." 

Anthony  made  a  wry  face.  "  I  should 
think  not,"  he  said,  sitting  down  on  a  bank. 

Margaret  huddled  up  against  him. 

"  I  miss  her  dreadfully,"  she  said,  and,  to 
his  astonishment,  she  burst  into  tears. 

He  let  her  cry  on  quietly — he  was  not  one 
of  the  men  who  can't  stand  a  woman's  cry- 
ing— and  very  soon  she  calmed  down  again. 


268  HER   MEMORY. 

"  When  I  go  to  her  now,"  she  said,  drying  her 
eyes,  "  she  usually  thinks  I  am  mother.  She 
talks  to  me  about  myself,  father,  and  says  she 
hopes  you  will  bring  me  up  well."  Margie 
gave  a  little  amused  feugh. 

"  I  hope  you  say  you  have  confidence  in 
me." 

Margie  threw  both  arms  round  her  father's 
neck.  ''  She  asks  me  if  I  love  you,"  she  an- 
swered; ''  sometimes  as  much  as  half-a-dozen 
times  in  one  visit.  And  I  never  get  tired  of 
answering  '  yes.'  " 

The  commencement  of  the  midsummer 
holidays,  a  fortnight  later,  brought  Margaret 
down  to  Stawell,  with  some  girl  friends  and 
their  mammas,  amongst  whom  were  the  Del- 
lyses.  The  house  filled  with  guests,  there 
would  be  no  going  abroad  this  summer,  for 
Anthony  was  hard  at  work  on  his  Report  of 
the  Cottage  Industries  he  had  fostered  around 
Rusborough,  a  little  book  that  he,  and,  still 


HER   MEMORY. 


269 


more,  his  friends,  particularly  desired  to  see 
appear  before  Christmas.  At  the  end  of  the 
year,  it  was  expected,  an  under-secretaryship 
would  fall  vacant,  and  the  heads  of  the  Gov- 
ernment opined  that  the  post  would  just  suit 
Sir  Anthony  Stollard.  Sir  Anthony  Stollard 
himself  never  thought  he  could  do  anything 
until  he  had  done  it. 

His  natural  attitude  towards  guests  was 
hospitably  to  invite  them,  and  to  wish  they 
were  gone  when  they  came.  Some  domestic 
misfortune  invariably  befell  when  the  house 
was  full  of  people.  The  cook  was  taken  ill,  or 
the  butler  had  an  attack  of  the  gout.  True, 
Mrs.  Fosby  could  no  longer  bully  the  servants, 
but  the  servants,  or  the  housekeeper,  still  bul- 
lied Sir  Anthony. 

One  broiling  August  day,  he  dropped  the 
pen  from  his  hot  fingers,  and  ran  out  of  his 
room.  The  whole  house  was  deserted.  Mar- 
gie had  organised  a  picnic  to  Grievely  Castle, 

the  sight  of  the  neighbourhood,  a  picturesque 
18 


270  HER   MEMORY. 

ruin.  Sir  Anthony  strolled  down  to  a  small 
lake  in  his  grounds,  where  a  bathing-place  had 
been  arranged  behind  a  tall  yew-hedge,  on 
which  hung  a  notice  with  "  Occupied,"  which 
ladies  might  turn  if  they  chose.  No  one  had 
turned  it  this  afternoon,  and  Sir  Anthony  was 
close  upon  the  little  bathing-house,  when  he 
heard  a  loud  voice  say,  very  decidedly — 

"  Yes,  Margaret  Stollard  is  a  good  child, 
but  she  certainly  doesn't  know  how  to  be- 
have." 

He  remained  rooted  to  the  spot,  afraid  to 
move,  lest  the  speaker  should  hear  him.  For 
the  voice  was  a  woman's,  Mrs.  Dellys's. 

"  She  showed  plainly  enough  that  she  only 
wanted  Ermy  to  go  this  afternoon,  and  not 
you,  Lucy.  Well,  she  can't  help  it,  poor  thing, 
she  wants  some  one  to  help  her.  Her  father, 
I  suppose,  would  call  her  sincere." 

Anthony  devoutly  hoped  they  would  jump 
in,  and  enable  him  to  escape. 

"  Margie  isn't  the  fit  person,  of  course,  to 


HER   MEMORY.  27 1 

play  mistress  of  a  house  like  this,"  continued 
Mrs.  Dellys  querulously,  her  voice  half  muf- 
fled. 

"  Why  doesn't  Sir  Anthony  marry 
again?  "  said  the  girl's  voice. 

"  Do  I  know?  Does  any  one  ever  know? 
Of  course  he  ought  to.  That's  the  reason,  I 
suppose." 

"  He  might  marry  Aunt  Mary!  " 

"  Your  Aunt  Mary!  Ermyntrude,  how 
can  you  talk  such  rubbish?  Your  Aunt  Mary 
is  one  of  the  richest  women  in  England,  and 
she  is  to  marry  your  cousin  Birmingham  as 
soon  as  she  can.  Everybody  is  moving  heaven 
and  earth  to  arrange  that  business,  and  I  for 
one  hope  and  pray  it  may  succeed.  There,  I 
oughtn't  to  have  told  you.  Are  you  ready? 
Do  make  haste."  A  moment  later  there  were 
two  splashes  behind  the  yew-hedge,  and  An- 
thony crept  swiftly  away. 

Once  his  eyes  had  been  opened,  it  soon  be- 


2/2 


HER  MEMORY. 


came  evident  to  Anthony  that  everybody  was 
anxious  to  find  him  a  wife.  The  matrimonial 
hunt  was  up,  and,  indeed,  what  more  natural? 
He  was  little  beyond  forty,  good-looking,  rich 
in  personal  and  social  advantages.  He  had 
been  married  once  before,  and  happily.  He 
was  just  the  kind  of  widower  whose  continued 
singleness  every  woman  feels  to  be  an  insult 
and  an  injury  to  her,  so  numerous,  sex.  Time 
was  hastening  on.  He  still  hung  on  that  verge 
where  those  who  had  their  reasons  for  doing 
so  could  speak  of  him  as  "  a  young  man  '' 
without  fear  of  open  dissent. 

He  stopped  at  Stawell  as  long  as  he  could, 
and  "  lay  low."  He  possessed  no  female  con- 
nections intimate  enough  to  discuss  the  sub- 
ject with  him  unasked;  but  for  that  circum- 
stance, he  would  have  found  out  long  ago  a 
great  deal  more  than  he  knew.  The  only  per- 
son who  could  have  worried  him — Lady  Mary 
Hunt — was  away  in  the  States,  where  she  had 
betaken  herself  for  a  five  months'  trip.     "  I 


HER   MEMORY.  273 

am  curious  to  see  for  myself,"  she  said, 
"  whether  the  Americans  can  really  outdo  us, 
if  they  choose,  in  vulgarity.  They  always  de- 
clare they  can,  but  I  won't  believe  till  IVe  seen 
it.  I  don't  believe,  to  begin  with,  that  any  one 
could  be  vulgarer  than  I  and  my  set." 

So  she  sailed  away,  in  the  deepest  of  sables, 
with  a  white  poodle  beside  her,  and  a  yellow 
French  novel  in  her  lap. 

Anthony,  back  in  London,  and  hard  at 
work — in  the  horrible  dull  chambers  he  hated 
— was  suddenly  called  down  to  Bournemouth, 
amongst  December  snows,  by  a  telegram  an- 
nouncing the  serious  illness  of  Margie.  The 
season  was  an  exceptionally  cold  one.  As  he 
flew  through  the  wintry  landscape,  in  a  terror 
of  anxiety,  he  realised  more  than  ever  how  his 
whole  life — not  the  outer  display  of  it,  but  the 
inner  reality — was  bound  up  in  this  daughter, 
the  only  living  memorial  of  Margaret.  After 
all,  the  things  which  occupy  us  every  day  are 
seldom  the  things  we  care  for  most. 


274  KER   MEMORY. 

He  found  Margie  very  ill  with  pneumonia, 
the  crisis  close  at  hand;  her  governess  had 
waited  too  long  before  warning  him.  The 
doctor,  vexatiously  solemn,  said,  "  Sir,  I  can 
say  nothing,"  again  and  again.  Anthony  tele- 
graphed for  great  men  to  London — not  that 
he  believed  they  could  help  him,  but  because 
he  felt  the  powerlessness  of  all  human  help. 
He  spent  a  week  of  immeasurable  agony — he 
had  not  imagined  it  still  possible  to  suffer  so 
much — then  the  storm  subsided,  and  in  utter 
calm  and  weakness  the  beloved  life  drifted 
back  into  the  haven. 

As  long  as  there  was  imminent  danger  he 
had  hardly  torn  himself  away  from  the  bed- 
side; now  he  managed  to  get  across  to  Mrs. 
Fosby  for  a  brief  visit.  The  visit  was  not  a 
success;  in  her  confusion  of  Margarets,  Mrs. 
Fosby  went  on  maundering  about  sickness 
and  death,  until  he  could  stand  the  tension  no 
longer,  and  fled.  "  It's  one  of  her  bad  days," 
said  the  old  lady's  much-worried  companion. 


HER  MEMORY. 


275 


'*  Sometimes  she's  quite  bright  and  quick,  for 
a  while." 

Anthony,  stopping  in  the  doorway, 
scanned  the  poor  girl's  worn,  ladylike  face. 
"  And  which  do  you  prefer? "  he  asked 
kindly. 

She  turned  away  her  eyes.  "  I  take  them 
as  they  come,"  she  said. 

It  was  on  one  of  the  bright  days  that  he 
saw  Mrs.  Fosby  again.  Margie  had  very 
gradually  recovered.  Her  father,  unable  to 
absent  himself  from  London  so  long,  had  run 
down  for  occasional  visits.  The  moment  ar- 
rived, anxiously  desired  and  dreaded,  when  he 
could  come  to  fetch  her  away.  Not  to  Sta- 
well;  the  doctors  had  decreed  that  Margie 
must  be  taken  south,  to  breathe  the  dust-laden 
winds  of  the  sunny  Riviera.  She  was  to  spend 
what  was  left  of  the  winter  with  cousins  of 
her  mother's  who  had  a  villa  at  Cannes.  So 
Anthony  arranged  to  see  her  as  far  as  Paris, 
and,  being  at  Bournemouth,  probably  for  the 


2^6  HER   MEMORY. 

last  time  in  many  months,  he  went  to  pay  a 
farewell  call  on  Mrs.  Fosby. 

"  Anthony,"  said  the  old  lady,  sitting  up, 
"  I  am  particularly  glad  to  see  you.  There 
is  an  important  matter  concerning  yourself 
which  I  am  very  anxious  to  discuss."  She 
shook  out  the  lace  at  her  wrists  with  a  nervous 
quiver  of  her  thin  hands,  and  then  searched  in 
an  absurd  little  old  black  reticule,  which  hung 
at  her  side.  During  this  fumbling  a  cushion 
dropped  from  the  back  of  her  neck.  It  was, 
Anthony  noticed,  a  wool-work  cushion,  much 
faded,  with  a  hideous  design  of  pink  roses  on 
red. 

"  Winifred!  "  said  Mrs.  Fosby,  in  her  shrill 
voice,  "  my  cushion  has  dropped  again.  You 
never  can  arrange  it  aright."  The  companion 
rose  meekly,  and  picked  the  thing  up.  "  Now, 
don't  forget  to  dust  it,"  said  Mrs.  Fosby.  "  I 
can't  have  all  the  dust  ofif  the  carpet  in  my 
neck!  Dust  it!  Dust  it!  And  tell  Mary  to 
dust  the  carpets  better,  and  to  dust  the  chairs, 


HER   MEMORY.  277 

and  dust  the  tables,  and  the Oh,  dear,  I 

forget  the  name  for  everything.  It  was  my 
daughter's  work,  sir — I  beg  your  pardon,  An- 
thony— that  cushion  was.  Here,  let  me  dust 
it  myself!  "  And  she  fell  to  with  her  pocket- 
handkerchief.  In  the  middle  of  the  dusting 
the  cushion  dropped  again.  "  Fm  a  poor, 
tottery  old  woman,"  cried  Mrs.  Fosby,  and 
began  to  shed  tears.  She  grumbled  then  for 
several  minutes,  while  Miss  Gimpling  was  try- 
ing to  satisfy  her,  and  finally,  having  produced 
a  letter  from  her  bag,  and  laboriously  polished 
her  spectacles,  she  settled  down  to  a  careful 
perusal  of  the  missive,  cushion  and  cap  on  one 
side,  in  imminent  danger  of  another  catas- 
trophe. 

Anthony  recognised,  to  his  amazement 
and  discomfort,  on  the  envelope  lying  before 
him  Lady  Mary's  sprawling  handwriting.  He 
averted  his  eyes;  they  fell  on  Winifred  Gimp- 
ling's  weary  face,  and  wandered  over  the 
stupid,  heavy  furniture.    A  copy  of  the  World 


278  HER   MEMORY. 

was  lying  on  a  table.  That  was  Mrs.  Fosby's 
worship  of  King  Snob. 

"  Quite  so,"  said  Mrs.  Fosby,  folding  up 
her  letter — "  Exactly."  She  took  off  her  spec- 
tacles and  peered  at  her  son-in-law. 

"  Anthony/'  she  said,  "  why  don't  you 
marry  Lady  Mary  Dellys?  I  strongly  advise 
you  to  marry  Lady  Mary  Dellys." 

Anthony  Stollard  was  not  a  young  man; 
he  was,  to  a  certain  extent,  a  man  of  the  world; 
he  was  a  pale-faced  man.  He  coloured  crim- 
son up  to  the  roots  of  his  hair.  And  he  said, 
in  a  tone  of  the  gKeatest  annoyance: 

"  Pray  let  us  speak  of  something  else." 

But  Mrs.  Fosby  shook  her  head.  "  No, 
no,"  she  said,  "  it  is  my  duty  to  speak  of  this.'* 
And  she  struck  a  bony,  much  bejewelled  fore- 
finger on  the  letter  lying  before  her.  "  What 
was  I  saying?    Winifred,  what  was  I  saying?  " 

The  companion  looked  up  at  Sir  Anthony, 
with  a  glance  of  such  sheer  terror  and  appeal 
that  he  could  not  but  laugh. 


HER    MEMORY.  279 

"  I  do  not  see  anything  to  laugh  at!  "  cried 
Mrs.  Fosby  in  great  irritation.  "  Pray,  what 
is  there  to  laugh  at  in  an  old  woman,  Sir  An- 
thony Stollard,  Baronet?  " 

"  Indeed  I  was  not  laughing  at  you!  "  ex- 
claimed Anthony,  distressed. 

"  M.  P.,"  said  Mrs.  Fosby. 

"  But  at  a — a  coincidence.  Margaret  is 
much  better;  I  shall  be  able  to  get  her  away 
next  week." 

"  Margaret,"  echoed  Mrs.  Fosby,  all  the 
harshness  gone  from  her  face  and  voice. 
"  Margaret!  Yes,  Anthc^ny,  you  took  her 
away  and  she  never  came  back."  Then  fol- 
lowed a  few  moments  of  solemn  silence.  "But 
thisy^  said  Mrs.  Fosby  briskly,  and  crackled 
the  paper,  "  this  is  what  I  wanted  to  talk 
about.  Winifred,  I'm  very  tired;  why  don't 
you  give  me  my  smelling-salts?  Mark  my 
birds,  Anthony — words,  I  mean.  You  ought 
to  marry  Lady  Mary  Dellys.  The  county  ex- 
pects it  of  you — the  county.    There  was  some 


28o  HER   MEMORY. 

talk  some  time  ago,  I  remember,  about  your 
marrying  her.  You  didn't;  you  preferred  to 
marry  Margaret.  Margaret's  where  I  shall 
soon  be  going."  Mrs.  Fosby  began  to  whim- 
per. *'  So  now  I  agree  with  this  " — she  tapped 
the  paper — "  and  with  everybody,  that  you 
ought  to  marry  Mary  Dellys.  I  remember 
her  well.  A  nice,  bright,  pheasant-spoken 
girl — peasant-spoken,  I  mean." 

"  Does  that  letter  give  the  advice?  "  asked 
Anthony. 

"  Indeed  it  does.  It  says  the  whole  county 
is  agreed  about  the  matter.  And  it  tells  me  to 
make  you  do  it." 

"  Oh,  Mrs.  Fosby,  you  shouldn't  have 
said  that! "  cried  the  companion,  starting 
up  and  scattering  her  sewing  things  on  the 
floor. 

"  I  am  so  much  obliged  to  the  county,"  re- 
marked Anthony.  But  Mrs.  Fosby's  attention 
was  concentrated  on  the  one  person  she  could 
still  unrestricted  bully. 


HER   MEMORY.  28 1 


"  I  will  thank  you  to  hold  your  tongue, 
Winifred  Gimpling!  "  she  screamed,  "  and  not 
to  insult  people  of  my  position  by  telling  them 
what  they  are  or  are  not  to  say!  The  society 
of  Stawell,  I  presume,  was  superior  to  that  of 
your  father's  curacy  at  Pigseye." 

The  companion  gathered  up  her  belong- 
ings without  a  word,  and  Anthony,  forgetful 
of  the  reputation  which  was  largely  his  own, 
gave  his  mother-in-law  the  curtest  of  good- 
byes and  walked  out  of  her  house. 

He  was  annoyed  with  the  poor  old  crea- 
ture, who,  like  most  old  ladies,  was  no  better 
than  she  had  been — rather  worse,  but  he  was 
far  more  angry  at  Lady  Mary.  He  knew  how 
reckless  she  could  be  in  her  downright  speech, 
but  what  had  she  meant  by  going  out  of  her 
way  to  write  this  outrageous  letter  from 
America?  He  was  not  sorry  Mrs.  Fosby  had 
betrayed  her.    She  deserved  it. 

A  day  or  two  later  he  took  Margie  as  far 
as  Paris.    She  was  very  quiet  on  the  way  and, 


282  HER  MEMORY. 

he  thought,  depressed.  He  spoke  of  her  re- 
turn in  the  spring,  of  the  coming  London  sea- 
son with  all  its  glories.  She  answered  little, 
in  a  subdued  voice. 

"  I  am  afraid  of  it  all,  father,"  she  said 
once,  lying  by  their  hotel  window,  from 
whence  you  could  see  the  carriage-filled 
sweep  of  the  Champs  Elysees. 

"  Afraid  of  what?  "  he  asked,  bending  over 
her.  "  Afraid  of  life,  dear?  All  good  people 
are,  now  and  then.  The  only  way  is  to  walk 
straight  up  to  it,  look  it  in  the  face,  and  say, 
Oh,  are  you  all?  That  is  what  philosophers 
call  doing  your  duty.  Ask  no  questions,  but 
tell  your  story.  I  don't  think  there's  a  wiser 
rule."  His  own  eyes  grew  dreamy,  as  he 
looked  away,  beyond  the  stream  of  human 
movement,  into  the  still,  pale  sky. 

Margie's  hand  stole  to  her  father's  and, 
clasping  it,  held  it  tight.  Holding  her  father's 
hand!  To  her  the  action  had  in  part  a  mys- 
tical meaning. 


HER   MEMORY.  283 

"  It  will  all  come  right,"  she  said  presently. 
"  We  shall  be  very  happy,  father.  I  am  sure 
we  shall."  *  Her  thoughts  were  full,  now  as 
constantly  through  these  slow  days  of  con- 
valescence, full  of  all  she  would  be  for  An- 
thony on  her  return  to  cheer  his  home.  Dur- 
ing forty-eight  hours  of  her  illness  she  had  be- 
lieved herself  to  be  dying.  She  was  not  afraid 
to  die — to  go  home  to  the  God  with  whom 
her  mother  dwelt — but  she  had  been  loth, 
with  many  tears  and  pleadings,  to  leave  the 
father  whose  lonely  home  had  waited  through 
all  these  years  for  her  return.  And  she  knew 
now  that  God  had  spared  her  to  be  his  com- 
fort for  the  past  and,  for  the  future,  his  delight. 
She  was  going  to  the  Riviera  now  so  as  to 
gain  strength  for  that  great  task.  This 
"cure"  would  be  their  last  long  separa- 
tion. She  would  go  back,  through  the  in- 
evitable troubles  of  the  London  season,  to 
that.  They  were  made  for  each  other,  for 
each   other   only,    united   in   their   common 


284  ^^^   MEMORY. 

memory   of  the   dear  saint  who   had   made 
them  one. 

"  Oh,  yes,  it  will  all  come  right,"  said  An- 
thony. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

On  the  last  day  of  the  old  year  Anthony 
arrived  at  Stawell.  It  was  a  dripping  day, 
dark,  full  of  dreariness  and  dull  calm.  He 
got  into  the  brougham  with  a  shiver;  he  had 
shivered  in  the  train,  although  the  damp  air 
was  far  from  cold.  Through  the  gaunt  trees 
ran.  a  shiver  also;  it  sent  their  shiny  mist- 
drops  down  across  the  shiny  road. 

He  sat  alone  with  gloomy  thoughts,  of 
Margie  gone  away  to  Cannes,  of  the  hideous 
northern  winter  all  around  him,  of  duty  (with 
a  slow  internal  yawn),  of  solitude,  and  loneli- 
ness, and  damp.  Presently  the  carriage  drew 
swiftly  near  the  side-road  branching  ofif  to 
Thurdles\  He  put  out  his  hand,  almost  invol- 
untarily, to  pull  the  check-string,  to  give  an 
19  285 


286  HER  MEMORY. 

order;  he  sank  back,  saying  nothing,  and 
sighed  to  himself. 

In  the  house  there  were  big  fires  and  soft 
lights,  a  servants'  welcome.  He  shut  himself 
up  in  the  library,  had  dinner  served  there, 
amongst  all  his  books  and  papers,  sat  boring 
himself  with  statistics  he  didn't  believe  in,  his 
mind  occupied  all  the  while  by  the  talk  of  John 
Lumley's  resignation,  by  the  rumour  which 
recommended  him,  Anthony  Stollard,  for  the 
post. 

Staring  moodily  into  the  red-hot  embers, 
he  once  more  asked  himself  the  old,  old  ques- 
tion, if  the  whole  thing  was  worth  his  while. 
Why  not  break  away  from  it  all,  pick  up  Mar- 
gie, and  fly  away  to  Italy,  for  good?  His 
mind  dwelt  on  the  old  life  in  Italy  that  had 
ended  four  years  ago.  All  its  sadness,  all  its 
sweetness  came  over  him,  like  an  odour  of 
dead  roses  and  pot-pourri.  Why  should  any 
man  sacrifice  to  an  idea,  to  social  position, 
social  duty,  social  claims,  the  free  develop- 


HER   MEMORY.  287 

ment  of  his  own  inner  nature,  that  soul-Hfe 
which,  to  some  temperaments,  remains  in 
sorrow  as  well  as  in  gladness  the  one  joy  of 
existence?  Some  men  surely  have  a  right — 
it  is  their  duty — to  suffer  as  they  will.  He 
paused. 

"  //  I  had  had  genius,"  he  said  to  himself 
in  utter  forlornness — if.  The  conclusion  of 
the  whole  matter  lies  in  that  "  if."  He  shook 
himself,  and  lighted  a  particularly  good  cigar. 
"  All  that  is  over  now,"  he  said,  taking  up 
"  Figaro  Noel." 

"  Two  ladies  asking  to  see  you.  Sir  An- 
thony," said  the  butler,  in  the  dim  doorway. 
Before  another  word  could  be  spoken  the  two 
ladies  were  crossing  the  room. 

"What  a  strange  reception!"  cried  Lady 
Mary  Hunt.  "  But  of  course  you  did  not  get 
my  telegram!  I  telegraphed  to  your  London 
address,  asking  whether  you  could  have  us 
down  here  for  a  day  or  two.  And  as  you 
didn't  answer,  I  came." 


288  HER   MEMORY. 

"  You  are  very  welcome :  I  need  hardly 
say  that,"  replied  Anthony,  with  slight  hesita- 
tion. He  glanced  away  to  the  figure  in  the 
background.  "  I  had  thought  you  were  still 
in  America." 

"  This  is  Mary  Dellys,  my  niece.  I  am  not 
sure  if  you  are  acquainted."  (Which  last  was 
a  fib.)    "  Fowey's  eldest  daughter,  you  know." 

"  It  is  exceedingly  kind  of  you  to  look  me 
up,"  said  Anthony.  He  noticed,  as  he  shook 
hands,  that  Lady  Mary's  companion  was  un- 
usually pretty.  "  Now  what  can  I  do  for  you, 
or  get  for  you,  first?  " 

"  Pay  the  fly,"  replied  Lady  Mary  prompt- 
ly. "  Dear  me,  it's  actually  past  ten  o'clock. 
We  had  some  dinner — and  very  bad  it  was — 
at  Trapping  Junction.  I  want  you  to  give  us 
a  hot  supper,  a  regular  make-a-night-of-it  sup- 
per, as  near  the  New  Year  as  you  can  manage 
it.  I  want  to  have  roast  chestnuts,  please.  I 
got  into  Liverpool  the  day  before  yesterday; 
so  you  see  I've  lost  no  time  in  coming  to  you." 


HER   MEMORY. 


289 


Anthony  went  to  give  the  necessary  or- 
ders, that  his  guests  might  be  as  comfortable 
as  he  could  make  them.  He  was  not  going 
to  analyse  Lady  Mary's  manner  of  doing 
things;  her  appearance  at  this  moment,  with  a 
probably  agreeable  companion,  caused  him 
almost  extravagant  pleasure.  When  he  re- 
turned to  the  library,  he  found  the  elder  lady 
comfortably  ensconced  by  the  fire. 

"  I  drove  to  your  chambers,"  said  Lady 
Mary,  "  but  the  woman  said  you  had  left  for 
here.  That  suited  me  exactly.  So  I  just 
stopped  to  pick  up  poor  Mary,  and  brought 
her  away  with  me.  Don't  you  think  she's  ex- 
ceedingly pretty?  " 

"  Where  is  she?  "  asked  Anthony. 

"  She  has  gone  to  lie  down  a  bit,  so  as  to 
be  in  trim  for  my  midnight  supper.  But  you 
don't  answer  my  question." 

"  All  women  are  pretty,"  replied  Anthony; 
"  even  those  who  are  only  pretty  old."  He 
felt  quite  light-hearted,  equal  to  making  puns. 


290  HER   MEMORY. 

Lady  Mary  laughed.  "That  isn't  bad," 
she  said;  "but  it's  not  good  enough  for  an 
Under  Secretary  of  State.  You  have  the 
news  already,  haven't  you?  " 

"  Nothing,"  began  Anthony,  "  be- 
yond  " 

She  clapped  her  hands.  "  Then  it's  my 
news,"  she  cried.  "  I'm  so  glad;  I  had  hoped 
it  would  be.  I  picked  it  up  this  afternoon 
from — never  mind  from  whom.  It's  true. 
John  Lumley  has  resigned,  dead-beat,  and 
you  are  to  take  his  place.  Of  course  you  will 
accept:  what  else  have  you  been  working  for, 
these  five  years?  " 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  repHed  Anthony, 
bewildered,  staring  into  the  fire. 

"  I  should  think  not.  Well,  Anthony,  I 
want  you  to  be  very  pleased  about  this  ap- 
pointment, as  pleased  as  all  your  friends 
are.  I'm  so  glad  I  had  the  telling  of  the 
news.  That's  worth  a  bad  dinner  at  Trap- 
ping." 


HER   MEMORY. 


291 


"  You  are  very  good,"  murmured  An- 
thony, still  collecting  his  thoughts. 

"What  a  horrid  thing  to  say!  But  seri- 
ously, this  appointment  marks  what  Mrs.  Fos- 
by  called  when  I  went  to  see  her  before  leav- 
ing— we  were  speaking  of  Margie — a  peacock 
in  your  career!  It's  the  landing,  so  to  speak, 
after  the  first  flight  of  stairs!  How  does  Ten- 
nyson put  it? — '  That  men  may  rise  o'er  step- 
ping stones '  " 

"Don't,  please!"  he  exclaimed.  "That 
isn't  apposite  a  bit!  " 

"  Well,  I  don't  pretend,"  she  answered 
good-humouredly,  "  to  know  anything  of  po- 
etry." She  shifted  her  neatly  slippered  feet  in 
front  of  the  blazing  logs.  "  I  don't  know 
more  than  half-a-dozen  lines  of  Tennyson,  and 
I'm  not  sure  how  many  of  those  are  Brown- 
ing's. '  'Tis  better  to  have  loved  and  lost,'  for 
instance."  She  stopped,  blushing  slightly. 
That  quotation  was  perhaps  too  apposite. 
"  How    is    Margie  ?  "    she    said.      "  Laying 


292  HER   MEMORY. 

in  a  store  of  strength,  I  hope,  for  the  com- 
ing season.  By  the  bye,  Anthony  " — this 
with  an  air  of  affected  carelessness — "  who 
is  going  to  present  her,  when  the  time 
comes?  " 

"  My  cousin  Dartry,  I  suppose,"  repHed 
Anthony.    *'  She's  got  no  nearer  relation." 

"Poor  little  Margie,"  said  Lady  Mary, 
musing.    "  But  perhaps  she  isn't  little  at  all?  '* 

"  She  is  far  from  tall.  And  she  is — I  im- 
agine— rather  unformed." 

"  She  was  a  dear  child  when  I  saw  her  last, 
simple  and  kind-hearted,  and  pleasant  to  look 
at:  just  the  sort  of  child  that  any  father  ought 
to  be  fond  of,  and  proud  of,  and  very  especially 
good  to." 

"  I  am  all  that,"  replied  Anthony  softly, 
"  and  a  good  deal  more.  But — well,  let  us 
talk  of  something  else." 

"  You  will  want  to  be  still  more  in  London 
now:  you  ought  almost  to  have  a  house 
there." 


HER  MEMORY.  293 

"  What  should  I  do  with  a  house?  I  can't 
entertain." 

"  You  might  in  a  way — you  might — 
but  no,  that  would  be  unsatisfactory.  An- 
thony, I  want  you  to  marry  Lady  Mary 
Dellys." 

For  a  moment  the  confusion  of  names, 
the  reminiscences  of  Mrs.  Fosby,  disconcerted 
him  even  more  than  the  proposition  itself. 
Lady  Mary  went  on  talking. 

"  That's  why  I  brought  her  here,  in  fact. 
Of  course  she  doesn't  know.  Or  rather,  I  car- 
ried her  of?  from  the  tender  mercies  of  her 
family." 

"  Lady  Fowey ?  "  began  Anthony. 

"  Lady  Fowey  is  a  sweet  nonentity,  and 
does  her  children  as  much  harm  as  only  sweet 
mothers  can.  But  my  aunt  of  Birmingham 
manages  us  all.  I  don't  think  you  ever  met 
her.  She  is  a  Cerodac,  one  of  the  few  great 
ladies  left  in  the  country.  It's  a  good  thing 
they  are  dying  out,  the  great  ladies.     They 


294  HER  MEMORY. 

were  the  cruelest  creation  of  God  upon 
earth/' 

Anthony  smiled.  "  And  for  her  punish- 
ment she  is  called  Birmingham/'  continued 
Lady  Mary.  "  She  wants  poor  Mary  to  marry 
Sir  Lancelot  Colquhoun — all  of  them  do,  more 
or  less.  Colquhoun  and  Colquhoun,  you 
know,  the  great  sausage-shop  people — Laza- 
rus Cohen  the  name  was  twenty  years  ago. 
But  I  say  there  must  be  limits  " — Lady  Mary 
set  her  shapely  teeth  hard — "  and  I  have  more 
right  to  speak  than  any  of  them.  The  meas- 
ure of  the  sacrifice  must  be  proportioned  to 
the  measure  of  the  need.  And  Fowey  can  at 
least  pay  instalments  on  his  debts." 

Anthony  smiled  again.  "  The  Duchess 
wouldn't  consider  me  much  of  a  match,"  he 
said. 

"  You'd  do,"  replied  Lady  Mary  coolly. 
"  She'd  discount  you.  There's  the  sausages, 
you  see,  and  the  Cohen  connection.  Besides, 
I  don't  see  why  I  shouldn't  have  a  word  to  say 


HER   MEMORY.  295 

in  the  matter.  Before  I  went  to  America  I'd 
never  thought  about  it.  But  as  soon  as  it  oc- 
curred to  me,  I  wrote  to  Mrs.  Fosby.  I  am 
glad  to  say  she  heartily  approves." 

Anthony  knew  not  whether  to  laugh  or 
frown.  He  was  certainly  glad  to  find  that  he 
had  misunderstood  Mrs.  Fosby's  allusions  to 
**  Lady  Mary  Dellys,"  and  that  the  fair  widow 
before  him  had  not  openly  proposed  herself 
as  a  candidate  for  his  hand.  Nevertheless,  he 
also  felt  himself  disappointed,  for  reasons  he 
comprehended,  though  he  would  have  found 
them  hard  to  explain. 

"  You  don't  expect  me,  surely,"  he  said 
with  a  little  irritation,  "  to  await  Mrs.  Fosby's 
approval?  " 

"  I  was  thinking  of  Margie,"  she  answered 
calmly. 

The  words  struck  him  like  a  blast  of  ice. 
He  said  nothing  more  for  a  long  time. 

"  Of  course  you  need  do  nothing  in  a  hur- 
ry," she  remarked  presently,  wearying  of  the 


296  HER   MEMORY. 

silence,  a  thing  she  always  disUked.  "  Just 
watch  her  and  get  acquainted.  I  am  sure  you 
will  like  her.  She  is  very  unsophisticated.  I 
have  told  her  I  shall  give  her  a  dowry,  who- 
ever she  marries.  So  you  see,  to  a  certain 
extent,  she  is  free  in  her  choice." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  forgot,"  said  Anthony.  "  Of 
course  you  are  enormously  rich."  Perhaps 
he  had  forgotten  at  that  moment,  but  he  had 
often  enough  reflected  on  the  fact. 

Lady  Mary  looked  uncomfortable.  "  Not 
so  enormously,"  she  answered;  then  fearing 
he  should  presume  some  affectation  on  her 
part:  "  Perhaps  you  haven't  heard?  "  she  con- 
tinued. "  I — I  didn't  keep  all  that  money, 
Anthony." 

"  I  have  heard  nothing  about  it,"  replied 
Anthony,  bending  forward  with  much  interest. 

"  Oh,  it's  very  simple.  There  were  two 
wills,  one  before  Eveline's  marriage  and  one 
after.  I  carried  out  some  of  the  provisions  of 
the  first." 


HER   MEMORY.  297 

"  You  gave  the  money  to  Eveline!  "  cried 
Anthony. 

"  Not  exactly.  Her  husband  has  turned 
out  better  than  we  feared.  He  is  a  mediocre 
artist,  but  he  treats  her  decently.  They  still 
live  in  Florence.  I  don't  quite  see  why  the 
marriage  should  have  made  all  that  difference 
in  her  father's  plans." 

"  You  carried  out  the  original  will !  "  in- 
sisted Anthony. 

"  I  have  seven  thousand  a  year,"  replied 
Lady  Mary.  "  That  seems  amply  sufficient. 
Can  you  imagine  what  Eveline  is  doing  with 
her  money?  Building  magnificent  free  hotels 
for  art  students  in  half-a-dozen  places  at  once. 
At  least,  that  is  her  project.  You  will  see  all 
about  it  soon  enough  in  the  papers.  She  was 
always  half  crazy,  but  rather  attractively  so." 

"  Lady  Mary,"  said  Anthony  with  fervour, 
"  how  much  better  you  are  than  you  try  to 
make  yourself." 

"  Out?  " 


298  HER   MEMORY. 

"  No,  I  did  not  say  '  out/  You  are  a  good 
woman.  Surely  your  step-daughter  admits  as 
much  now?  " 

"  I  don't  know;  it  is  too  late.  You  see, 
she  started  wrong.  Start  right  with  Margie. 
What  you  say  about  her  makes  me  anxious. 
This  is  a  worldly  world  we  live  in,  and  un- 
worldliness,  like  other-worldliness,  doesn't 
pay.  Mary  Dellys  will  be  a  great  help  to  Mar- 
gie— like  an  older,  wiser  sister.  She  is  really 
a  good  girl,  is  Mary.  Very  much  like  what  I 
was  fifteen  years  ago!  " 

"  Not  so  handsome,"  said  Anthony. 

"  Nobody  ever  knows,"  replied  Lady  Mary 
rather  sadly,  "  how  handsome  a  woman 
was.'' 

"  Mary,"  he  said,  "  will  you  marry  a  man 
whose  heart " 

"  No,"  she  interrupted  him  hastily,  "  I 
won't  hear  anything  about  Edward  Gray." 

His  face  grew  dark  with  annoyance,  but 
before  he  could  speak  another  word: 


HER  MEMORY.  299 

"  I  know  exactly  what  your  heart  is  like," 
she  said;  "  it  is  in  very  good  condition.  It 
is  a  first-rate  heart.  And  I  advise  you  to  make 
a  present  of  it  to  a  younger  woman  than  I 
am. 

"  You  wrong  me/'  he  answered.  "  I  was 
not  going  to  talk  rubbish  about  Edward  Gray. 
But  I  have  loved  once  as  I  shall  never  love 
again.  I  cannot  *  love/  in  the  old  sense,  the 
lady  who  consents  to  gladden  my  home  and 
to  befriend  my  daughter.  You  say  that  you 
know  my  heart.  Such  as  it  is,  if  you  will  have 
it,  it  is  yours." 

Lady  Mary  sat  gazing  straight  in  front  of 
her. 

*'  To  me,"  she  said  at  last,  "  the  whole 
thing  seems  unfair — unfair  to  yourself  and  to 
the  name  you  are  bearer  of.  I  am  nearly  forty, 
Anthony." 

''  And  I — do  you  think  I  am  young? — a 
young  woman's  husband — I?  " 

Again  a  long  silence  fell  between  them,  the 


300  HER   MEMORY. 

longest  silence  in  Lady  Mary's  life.    When  she 
spoke  it  was  to  say: 

''  If  you  really  will  have  me,  to  be  what 
little  I  can  for  you  and  for  Margie,  I  will  grate- 
fully, faithfully,  endeavour  to  do  my  best.  I 
will  do  all  I  can  for  Margie.  Anthony,  I — I 
am  not  sentimental — am  I  ? — but  I  have  loved 
you  all  my  life." 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

When  Lady  Mary  Dellys  entered  the  li- 
brary half  an  hour  later  she  found  her  god- 
mother, who  apparently  had  not  moved  all 
the  while,  engaged  in  very  serious  conversa- 
tion with  their  host.  The  little  party  went 
into  supper  immediately,  and  the  ladies  espe- 
cially were  exceedingly  gay  over  this  uncon- 
ventional entertainment. 

"  Anthony,  before  the  clock  strikes  I  ex- 
pect a  speech  and  a  toast,"  said  Lady  Mary 
Hunt.  "  My  dear  Mary,  you  must  wish  all 
possible  prosperity  to  this  Government  func- 
tionary, who  will  some  day  be  in  the  Cabinet." 

"  Are  under-secretaries  in  the  Cabinet?  " 
asked  Lady  Mary   Dellys  innocently.      Her 
aunt  felt  somewhat  reassured.    After  all,  per- 
haps,  an  older  and  more   experienced  wife 
20  301 


302  HER   MEMORY. 

would  not  be  the  worse  match  for  Sir  An- 
thony Stollard. 

"  Lady  Mary  has  possibly  a  toast  of  her 
own?  "  said  Anthony  gallantly.  A  sparkle  of 
mischief  came  into  the  girl's  good-natured 
blue  eyes. 

"  Yes,  indeed,"  she  said.  "  I  drink  to  the 
duke's  future  bride.  Aunt  Mary.  May  she  sit 
at  the  head  of  his  table  before  the  new  year 
has  grown  old." 

"  And  may  we  be  there  to  see,"  said  Lady 
Mary  imperturbably.  "  She  means  Birming- 
ham, Anthony.  I  ran  away  from  him  to 
America,  and  he  stupidly  pursued  me.  The 
duchess  was  terrible.  I  really  am  afraid  I 
should  have  been  compelled  to  marry  him — 
and  I'm  a  good  plucked  one,  as  you  know — 
I  had  to  arrange  about  the  will,  as  my  only 
escape.  It  was  very  funny;  I  wish  you  could 
have  seen  it.  They  dropped  oflf,  all  at  once, 
quite  silent  and  dead,  like  dogs  when  the 
last  biscuit's  eaten.     I  hadn't  the  remotest 


HER   MEMORY.  303 

desire  to  become  Duchess  of  Birming- 
ham," 

"  It  must  be  rather  a  nice  thing  to  be  a 
duchess,"  said  Lady  Mary  Dellys. 

"  Not  of  Birmingham,  my  dear.  And 
that  is  what  all  our  duchesses  are  now-a-days. 
Anthony,  I  want  some  more  of  those  red-hot 
chestnuts.  Mary,  I  invite  you  to  supper  next 
year — you  have  no  objection,  Anthony? — 
with  Lady  Mary  Stollard." 

"  Good  heavens,  is  that  how  you  keep 
secrets?  "  exclaimed  Anthony. 

*'  Not  from  this  child.  She  shall  be  my 
one  exception.  My  dear  Mary,  this  engage- 
ment must  be  mentioned  to  no  one  till  Sir 
Anthony  has  returned  with  his  daughter  from 
Cannes." 

To  the  astonishment  of  both  her  compan- 
ions Lady  Mary  Dellys  burst  into  tears,  of 
which  she  refused  to  give  any  explanation. 
She  rose  from  the  table  and  hurried  away. 
Her  aunt  hastened  after  her. 


304  HER   MEMORY. 

"  My  dear  child !  "  cried  Lady  Mary,  half 
laughing,  "  you  didn't  know  him  before  this 
evening!  You  surely  didn't  want  to  marry 
him  yourself?  " 

"  No,"  sobbed  the  younger  Lady  Mary, 
almost  laughing  also;  "  but — but — oh,  every- 
body seems  so  happy  except  me!  " 

"  Tell  me,  who  is  it?  "  whispered  the  older 
woman  in  the  dark  of  the  ante-room.  And, 
as  no  answer  was  forthcoming,  "  Make  haste, 
my  dear,  before  that  fat  butler  comes  in." 

"  It's  Hugh  Brassell,"  sobbed  the  damsel. 

"  What,  handsome  Hugh  Brassell  of  the 
Guards?  You  sly  little  puss,  you  shall  have 
him — that's  to  say,  if  he  wants  you." 

"  Oh,  Aunt  Mary,  of  course  he  wants  me. 
I  mean  to  say,  how  could  I  want  him,  if  he 
didn't?  How  should  I  know  anything  about 
it?  "  And  Mary  Dellys  hid  her  face  in  her 
handkerchief. 

"  You  shall  have  him.  You  know,  I  have 
promised  you  a  dowry.    I'll  make  it  enough 


HER   MEMORY.  305 

for  you  to  marry  on.  You're  my  godchild. 
They  won't  dare  refuse  me."  The  great  hall 
clock  began  to  chime.  "  Come  back  to  the 
library,  quick,  child.  Anthony,  here  are  two 
engagements  to  celebrate!  " 

"Hush,  aunt,  I  entreat  of  you — hush!" 
implored  the  young  Lady  Mary. 

The  older  woman,  the  widow,  obeyed. 
For  some  moments  her  thoughts  had  dwelt 
on  her  own  girlhood  and  early  marriage ;  now 
they  flew  away  to  Eveline,  away  yonder  in 
Florence,  childless,  with  a  life-mate  who  could 
never  be  anything  more  than  a  disappoint- 
ment. "  God  bless  this  house,"  she  said  sol- 
emnly, "  and  all  who  dwell  in  it.  God  bless 
Margie,  all  alone,  far  away!  " 

"  Thank  you,"  answered  Anthony  heartily, 
with  uplifted  glass.  "  And  here's  the  health  of 
all  lovers !  "  he  added,  as  if  it  were  an  after- 
thought. 

"  And  may  they  all  get  the  desire  of  their 
heart,"  said  Lady  Mary  Hunt. 


3o6  HER   MEMORY. 

"  Before  they  grow  too  old  to  enjoy  it/* 
said  stupid  little  Mary  Dellys,  smiling  like  an 
April  day. 

Next  morning  the  weather  had  changed. 
The  new  year  opened  faint  and  tepid,  under  a 
pale  blue  sky.  Church  being  over,  and  lun- 
cheon eaten,  Lady  Mary  Hunt  stopped  yawn- 
ing in  the  picture  gallery,  sat  up  briskly,  and 
demanded  to  be  taken  for  a  drive.  Her  niece, 
wisely  and  sweetly,  had  letters  to  write — one 
letter,  at  any  rate — and  so  the  engaged  couple 
started  together  in  the  phaeton. 

"  Will  you  drive?  ''  asked  Anthony,  "hold- 
ing out  the  reins.  Lady  Mary  declined,  and 
took  her  seat,  chuckling  to  herself  over  some 
thoughts  of  her  own. 

When  she  broke  the  silence,  it  was  to  say: 
"  Anthony,  I  wish  you  would  take  rne  to  Thur- 
dles."  He  clenched  his  hands  on  the  ribbons 
so  tight  that  the  sensitive  horses  sprang 
forward  ;    they    had   flown    on    some   yards 


HER   MEMORY.  307 

along  the  slushy  road  before  Anthony  said: 
"  Why?  " 

"  Because  I  should  like  to  see  it.  Because 
I  think  I  ought  to  see  it.  Because  we  should 
have  some  things  in  common — as  far  as  pos- 
sible— no  farther.*' 

*'  Perhaps  you  are  right/*  he  answered 
quietly,  and  he  turned  the  horses'  heads. 

**  You  know  the  house — surely?  "  he  said, 
as  the  white  building  came  into  sight  between 
the  trees. 

*'  From  the  outside  only.'' 

"  It  isn't  much  of  a  house  to  look  at." 

She  laid  a  hand  on  his  arm:  "  You  don't 
mind,  do  you?  "  she  said. 

*'  No,  indeed,"  he  answered  hastily.  "  I 
don't  mind  anything.  I  mean,  why  should 
you  think  I  minded?  As  you  say,  we  have 
everything  in  common  now." 

*^  I  did  not  say  that,  nor  anything  like  it." 
Her  voice  showed  she  was  hurt.  "  What 
^  beautiful  pale  blue  sky — almost  like  Flor- 


3o8 


HER   MEMORY. 


ence.  Would  you  like  to  live  in  Florence 
again?  '* 

"  Would  you?  " 

"  No.    I  should  prefer  Monte  Carlo." 

"  Well,  there's  not  much  chance  of  either 
for  me.  I  had  a  telegram  this  morning;  it 
bears  out  your  information.  I  must  be  off 
to  London  to-morrow." 

*'  So  I  understood.  That  is  why  I  asked 
you  to  drive  me  here  to-day."  She  alighted 
as  she  spoke.  They  walked  along  the  front 
of  the  house,  round  by  the  boudoir  window, 
to  whose  parapet  Margie  had  so  often  clung. 
"  It  looks  very  deserted,"  said  Lady  Mary. 
"  Naturally  it  would,"  replied  her  companion; 
"  nobody  ever  comes  here  but  L" 

They  wandered  through  the  rooms,  she 
saying  very  little,  he  reflecting  how  clever  she 
was,  to  have  brought  him  here  at  once  in 
this  manner.  She  was  "  getting  it  over,"  as 
he  understood.  And  really  the  little  she  said 
from   time   to   time — for   under   no   circum- 


HER   MEMORY.  309 

Stances  could  she  keep  silence  long — ^was  in 
admirable  taste.  Perhaps  he  had  hardly  given 
her  credit  for  her  full  share  of  tact :  perhaps  he 
had  hardly  realised  what  kind  of  insolence  is 
tact  consummate.  There  is  nothing  a  man 
likes  better  in  a  woman,  except  physical 
attraction,  than  neatness  of  hand  and  of 
heart. 

They  paused  before  the  one  room  which 
she  had  left  unmentioned,  and  he  unlocked  the 
door. 

"  And  this  room,"  she  said  looking  round, 
"  is  sacred  to  her  memory.  That  is  as  it 
should  be,  Anthony." 

*'  It  shall  always  remain  so,"  he  answered. 
She  bent  over  a  magazine  lying  on  a  side 
table.  A  number  of  "  Eraser's,"  nine  years 
old.  The  pale  light  crept  from  the  bow- 
window  across  the  wall  opposite.  "  Oh,  what 
a  picture!  "  she  cried. 

She  was  standing,  astonished,  before  "  The 
Angel  of  Human  Love."    It  loomed  from  its 


3IO  HER  MEMORY. 

dark  background,  white  and  pure,  with  that 
almost  awful  actuality  which  seems  to  breathe 
from  a  great  painting  of  the  human  face  when 
you  come  upon  it  unexpectedly  in  a  solitude. 
The  eyes,  in  their  sweet  sadness,  were  gazing 
full  at  the  two  who  stood  before  them.  "  An- 
thony!" cried  Lady  Mary,  "who  painted 
that?  " 

"  It  is  the  last  work  I  ever  did,"  replied 
Anthony.    "  I  finished  it  five  years  ago." 

"  You!  You!  *'  her  voice,  trembling  with 
amazement,  fell  to  a  sudden  hush.  "  You 
painted  thatf  '*  She  remained  motionless  be- 
fore the  picture:  he,  standing  a  little  behind 
her,  knew  not  whether  to  feel  pleased  or 
vexed.  Her  presence  in  that  room^  her  voice 
on  its  stillness,  her  study  of  the  portrait,  these 
things  were  to  him  as  a  physical  pain. 

"  That  is  a  great  picture,"  said  Lady  Mary. 
"  Surely  others— better  judges— have  said  as 
much?  " 

"  You  are  the  third  person  that  has  ever 


KER   MEMORY.  311 

seen  it,"  he  answered.  "  The  others  are  Mar- 
gie and  I." 

"  And  you  say  you  have  never  painted 
anything  since?  " 

"  I  have  not.  It  didn't  seem  worth 
while." 

"  Not  worth  while?  The  man  who  could 
paint  that  picture  ought  never  to  have  done 
anything  but  paint !  " 

He  cried  out  at  the  cruel  words,  struck  as 
if  with  a  knife.  "  You  don't  mean  that,  Mary! 
You  can't  mean  that!  It's  against  all  your 
traditions  and  teaching  of  common  sense!  " 

"  No,  I  don't  mean  it,"  she  said  sooth- 
ingly, with  ready  woman's  wit.  "  But  you 
oughtn't  quite  to  have  abandoned  painting. 
You  must  take  it  up  again  in  your  spare  mo- 
ments.'* 

He  grew  paler  still,  at  the  thought  of 
painting  in  his  spare  moments.  "  Come,  let 
us  go,"  he  said.  His  face  was  drawn  with 
pain:  he  could  stand  the  tension  no  longer. 


312  HER   MEMORY. 

The  eyes  of  his  dead  wife  were  looking  at 
him,  full  of  pity,  full  of  pity. 

"  I  can  hear  the  horses  outside,"  he  said. 
"  They  are  exceedingly  restless.  We  had  bet- 
ter make  haste." 

On  the  way  home  Lady  Mary  talked  of 
plans  for  the  new  life  in  London,  of  possible 
situations  for  a  residence,  of  servants,  and 
even  casually  of  the  conventional  restrictions 
imposed  by  her  period  of  mourning. 

"  The  engagement  cannot  possibly  be  an- 
nounced for  the  next  month  or  two,"  she  said. 
"  In  any  case,  people  will  talk." 

Lady  Mary  smiled.  "  Because  of  seven- 
teen years  ago,"  she  said,  "  and  because  they 
always  do.  And  because  we  have  given  them 
plenty  of  occasion — recently.  And  because 
they  would,  though  we  had  not." 

Anthony  frowned.  He  did  not  like  the 
idea  of  people  talking  about  these  affairs  of 
his.  Seventeen  years  ago  he  was  not  a  pub- 
lic  man.     Away   at   Florence,   he   had   not 


HER   MEMORY.  313 

minded  what  people  said.  Now,  in  his  altered 
circumstances,  he  felt  that  his  public  life  was 
public  property.     Surely  that  was  enough. 

"  Everybody  will  discuss  us,"  continued 
Lady  Mary  Hunt;  "from  my  aunt  of  Bir- 
mingham down  to — down  to  the  buyers  of 
the  penny  society  papers.  I  wonder  what  sort 
of  people  those  are?  I  should  like  to  meet 
one;  just  as  the  Princess  Pobolski,  who  had 
known  hundreds  of  English  abroad,  said  she 
hoped,  when  she  came  to  London,  she  should 
meet  a  Home  Ruler. 

"  I  don't  quite  see  the  connection,"  said 
Anthony  carelessly. 

"  My  dear  Anthony,  I  am  not  algebra.  If 
you  expect  me  to  talk  like  a — what  do  you 
call  it? — a  theorem,  you  will  be  immensely  dis- 
appointed. If  there  is  anything  Euclidic  in 
my  conversation,  it  must  be  the  reduction  to 
the  absurd." 

She  went  on  talking  for  the  sake  of  talk- 
ing, distressed  by  his  white  face,  the  set  look 


314  HER   MEMORY. 

in  his  eyes,  the  grave  indifference  of  his  man- 
ner. She  beHeved  that  if  he  was  now  suffer- 
ing thus  keenly,  the  entire  cause  must  be 
sought  in  the  visit  to  Thurdles  which  she  had 
suggested,  and  the  thought  was  a  great  hu- 
miliation to  her.  Certainly  she  was  not  pre- 
pared for  the  suddenness  with  which  he  turned 
to  her  at  last. 

*'  You  are  partial,"  he  said,  "  about  that 
picture." 

*^  Ask  whom  you  like,"  she  answered 
heartily.  "  It  is  a  masterpiece.  You  must 
send  it  to  the  Symbolists*  next  month." 

He  drove  on  so  fast  that,  in  spite  of  her 
traditional  courage,  she  could  not  resist  con- 
vulsively clasping  the  side  of  the  seat. 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

Two  months  later,  not  one  month — Lady- 
Mary's  dates  were  generally  wrong — the  "  An- 
gel of  Human  Love "  was  sent  in,  anony- 
mously, to  the  Easter  Exhibition  of  the  Sym- 
bolists in  the  Champs  Elysees.  Anthony  had 
not  intended  to  send  it,  which  fact  is  a  fresh 
proof  of  the  very  old  truth  that,  when  woman 
proposes,  she  generally  disposes  too. 

Shortly  after  the  picture  had  been  ac- 
cepted, its  author,  availing  himself  of  the  re- 
cess, started  southward  to  spend  a  few  days 
with  his  daughter.  At  Paris  he  naturally  de- 
layed twenty-four  hours  to  inspect  the  Exhibi- 
tion. Short  as  his  holiday  was,  and  fondly  as 
his  heart  yearned  after  the  child,  he  could  not 
but  dread  the  disclosure  of  his  plans  for  the 

future — her  future,  although  he  had  resolved 

315 


3i6  HER   MEMORY. 

from  the  first  that  the  news  should  be  with- 
held till  she  heard  it  from  his  lips.  The  more 
he  reflected  on  former  conversations  with 
Margie,  the  surer  he  felt  that  he  was  acting 
for  her  happiness.  "  Make  her  happy."  These 
words  had  been  a  law  to  him  since  first  he 
read  them.  "  Make  her  happy  and  good." 
She  had  needed  no  making  good.  All  that 
was  compatible  with  his  highest  duty  he  had 
done  for  her,  and  now  at  this  critical  moment 
— never  could  he  recall,  without  an  inward 
shudder,  the  arrival  of  Eveline  Hunt  in  Flor- 
ence— at  this  critical  moment  he  was  doing 
almost  more. 

So  he  reasoned,  for  the  hundredth  time,  as 
he  sat  over  his  coffee  after  luncheon  on  the 
boulevard.  Years  ago.  Lady  Mary's  warn- 
ings about  nestless  fledglings  had  frightened 
and  greatly  influenced  him.  In  Margie's  de- 
velopment, on  her  return  to  England,  and 
especially  of  late  on  leaving  school,  he  had 
seen  the  wise  woman's  contentions  come  true. 


HER   MEMORY.  317 

There  were  many  things  to  be  considered  in 
his  life,  perhaps;  there  were  few,  it  seemed  to 
him,  still  worth  considering.  The  great  thing 
is  to  see  what  is  most  important,  and  to  put 
it  first. 

He  walked  across  to  the  kiosk,  and  bought 
a  couple  of  daily  papers.  He  had  only  got 
into  Paris  that  morning. 

Almost  the  first  thing  to  strike  his  eye  in 
the  Figaro — after  the  Nouvelles  a  la  Main, 
which  everyone  naturally  picks  out — was  a 
notice  of  the  recently-opened  exhibition,  con- 
taining half  a  column  of  unusually  enthusiastic 
praise.  And  the  picture  thus  selected  was  not 
by  one  of  the  numerous  dear  confreres,  col- 
laborateurs  or  concitoyens,  to  whom  French 
journals  so  easily  address  their  compliments; 
it  was  the  anonymous  English*  painting,  sent 
in  under  the  appellation,  "  The  Angel  of  Hu- 
man Love." 

He  took  up  the  serious  Temps,  with  fairly 
steady  hand,  and  again  the  name  of  his  pic- 

21 


3i8  HER  MEMORY. 

ture  stared  him  in  the  face.  "  It  is  the  great- 
est picture,'*  said  the  Temps,  "  that  Paris  has 
seen  for  several  seasons.  It  reveals  a  new 
genius  in  the  world  of  painting.  We  welcome 
him,  although  he  be  not  a  Frenchman.  The 
Republic  of  Art  recognises  no  frontiers,  etc., 
etc."  And  the  article  was  signed  Maurice 
Rodillet! 

He  rose  to  his  feet  a  little  dazed,  and 
walked  through  the  unresting  crowd.  The 
constant  going  and  coming  troubled  him.  He 
was  glad  to  get  away  to  the  larger  spaces, 
among  the  barren  trees. 

There  was  nothing  Hke  a  crush  inside  the 
Exhibition  building;  scattered  spectators 
formed  lively  groups  of  two  and  three.  In 
the  second  room  alone  a  larger  group  had 
gathered,  buzzing  with  that  stupidly  impor- 
tant interest  which  accumulates  around  the 
ignorant  sensation  of  the  hour. 

There,  stared  at  by  twenty  unsympathetic' 
faces — fat,  fair,  old,  foolish,  simpering,  bored 


HER   MEMORY.  31^ 

— there,  staring  back  at  them,  sweetly,  serene- 
ly unconscious,  was  the  face  of  his  solitude, 
his  sanctitude,  his  dream  of  life  and  death. 
He  gazed,  on  the  outskirts  of  the  crowd,  until 
there  seemed  to  come  into  those  constant  eyes 
a  look  of  soft  reproach  and  pleading.  He  tore 
himself  away. 

On  a  bench  by  the  swiftly-flowing  river  he 
sat  until  the  evening  fell,  and  watched  the 
river  flow. 

At  the  restaurant  where  he  dined,  a  couple 
of  journalists  were  talking  of  the  picture. 
Curiosity  was  rife,  he  heard  them  say,  as  to 
who  would  claim  the  work.  "  A  young  man, 
of  course,"  said  one  of  the  diners;  "  he  will 
do  great  things."  "  A  young  man?  "  echoed 
his  companion.  "  I  have  my  doubts.  But  yes, 
he  will  do  great  things." 

The  station  of  the  Boulevard  Diderot 
was  full  of  very  different  preoccupations. 
In  the  turmoil  of  EngHsh  people  go- 
ing   south    the    anonymous    celebrity    once 


320  HER   MEMORY. 

more  felt  himself  secure.  "  That's  Sir  An- 
thony     Stollard,"       somebody      whispered, 

*'  the     Under-Secretary "       He     moved 

away. 

But  he  could  not  escape  the  conversation 
which  reached  him  from  the  neighbouring 
compartment  of  the  corridor  train — 

"  Owner  of  Stawell,  by  Jove — forty  some- 
thing, not  five — and  such  a  position  in  Parlia- 
ment! Lucky  fellow!  Do  you  believe  there  is 
anything  in  the  story  of  a  liaison  with  Lady 
Mary  Midas?  " 

"  I  always  believe,  on  principle,  the  story 
of  a  liaison.  Besides,  why  not?  He's  been  a 
widower  for  ages;  men  don't  go  on  mourning 
for  their  wives  till  they  marry  again.  And 
surely,  Lady  Mary  can't  have  doted  on  Midas. 
By-the-bye,  she's  been  giving  her  millions 
away." 

"Yes.  Rum  go.  What  fools  women 
are!" 

"And  to  that  painter  chap,  of  all  crea- 


HER  MEMORY.  321 

tures!  It  was  awfully  hard  on  Midas,  his 
daughter  marrying  a  painter  chap!  " 

Sir  Anthony  Stollard  sat  still  in  his  com- 
partment. Well,  he  was  a  statesman.  Great 
God!  he  might  have  been — he  might  have 
been — a  painter  chap! 

"  Margie,  you  are  looking  very  much  bet- 
ter! "  were  his  first  words,  as  he  alighted  at  the 
little  Cannes  station.  There  was  a  cry  of  joy 
in  them.    "  Really  very  much  better,"  he  said. 

"  So  I  wrote,  papa,  in  every  letter." 

"Yes;  but  one  likes  to  make  sure  of  the 
thing  for  one's  self.  I  can't  wait  half-an-hour 
for  my  luggage.  Let  us  drive  up  at  once  to 
the  hotel." 

During  the  drive — during  the  ensuing 
dinner  at  the  Villa  Liseron,  where  Margie  was 
staying — he  talked  of  an  hundred  subjects — 
pets,  acquaintances,  dependents;  but  he  knew 
that  presently,  before  they  parted  for  the 
night,  he  must  speak  of  the  one  thing  which 
occupied  his  thoughts. 


322  HER   MEMORY. 

He  did  not  imagine  he  should  find  it  very 
difficult.  Of  course,  in  such  matters,  there  is 
always  the  newness,  and  the  absurdity,  of  the 
situation  to  get  over.  But  Margie's  heart 
would  doubtless  leap  up  for  joy  at  thought  of 
the  responsibility,  the  timidity,  rolled  away 
from  it,  like  a  stone.  She  would  enter  the 
great  world  she  dreaded,  under  Lady  Mary's 
experienced  guidance.  Joyous  and  careless, 
as  a  young  girl  should  be,  in  London,  at  Sta- 
well,  she  would  live  the  same  bright  life  as  the 
friends  she  had  frequently  envied,  and,  in  time, 
she  would  marry  happily.  God  bless  her!  He 
could  never  have  arranged  about  her  mar- 
riage.   Often  he  had  trembled  at  the  thought. 

He  did  not  fear  that  she  would  dislike  to 
see  a  stranger  in  her  mother's  place.  She  had 
forgotten  her  mother.  If  there  was  one  thing 
in  which  she  had  disappointed  his  constant 
affection,  it  was  her  easy  attainment  of  that 
indifference  he  had  so  ardently  desired.  For 
years  she  had  never  mentioned  the  deceased; 


HER   MEMORY.  323 

she  had  never  again  asked  to  see  the  picture 
at  Thurdles.  When  she  complained,  it  was 
not  that  she  regretted  a  loss,  but  a  want. 

"  Margie,"  he  said  ;  his  voice  quivered 
slightly.  They  were  out  on  the  terrace  of  the 
villa,  in  the  perfumed  evening  air. 

"  Margie."  A  little  breeze  cast  shadows  of 
black  foliage  across  the  twinkling  stars.  The 
sea  lay  in  the  distance,  a  silent  mass  of  gloom. 
"  I  have  got  something  to  tell  you.  On  the 
whole,  I  think  you  will  like  it,  at  least,  after 
a  while." 

"  If  you  have  arranged  it  for  me,  father,  I 
am  sure  I  shall  like  it,"  she  answered.  She 
was  standing  close  against  him,  with  her  hands 
clasped  on  his  shoulder,  and  she  pressed  them 
as  she  spoke. 

"  In  a  few  weeks,  when  the  weather  is  defi- 
nitely milder,  you  will  be  coming  home — defi- 
nitely, too.  You  are  going  to  be  a  grown-up 
young  lady  now,  Margaret.  You  remember 
you  used  to  be  so  afraid  of  the  idea?  " 


324  HER   MEMORY. 

"  Yes/'  she  answered;  but  there  was  more 
than  affirmation  in  her  reply.    He  hesitated. 

"  But  I  have  had  plenty  of  time  to  think 
about  it  all,"  she  continued,  "  and  I  think  I 
have  got  a  little  more  sensible,  father.  I  feel 
that  I  have  been  rather  foolish  and — and  dis- 
trustful of  God's  help.  I  have  been  waiting 
to  say  this  to  you  till  you  came.  I  couldn't 
write  it.  I  am  going  to  be  your  own  brave 
daughter,  and  make  your  home  happy  for 
you,  and  comfortable,  as  far  as  I  can.  I  am 
going  to  do  my  duty,  to  follow  the  example 
you  have  set  me,  dear  father,  through  all 
these  years."  Very  quietly  she  unclasped  her 
hands,  threw  one  arm  round  his  neck,  and 
kissed  him. 

"  I  can  never  repay  all  you  have  done  for 
me,"  she  said,  "  but  I'll  try  to  do  all  I  can." 

In  the  silence,  the  heavy,  living  silence,  she 
stood  patiently  waiting,  with  her  arm  round 
his  neck. 

"  Are  we  going  to  live  part  of  the  year  in 


HER   MEMORY.  325 

iTondon?  "  she  asked  at  last.  "  I  expected 
it  would  have  to  be  that,  now.  I  am  sure  I 
shall  get  accustomed  to  London,  and — and 
like  parties,  especially  now.  I  am  so  proud  of 
you,  father;  everyone  sings  your  praises, 
though  I  don't  need  that.  I  was  rude  to  Mrs. 
Gleeson  the  other  day,  I  fear,  because  she  said 
it  was  so  extraordinary;  nobody  had  ever 
thought  formerly  you  could  do  anything 
but  paint!  *  Just  do  nice  little  amateur  pic- 
tures,' she  said.  She  had  never  seen  the — 
the  portrait  of " — Margaret's  voice  dropped 
very  low — ''  my  mother." 

"  Just  so,"  he  said  quickly,  "  we  shall  have 
to  live  in  London  now  during  the  season.  You 
could  never  have  undertaken  the  responsibil- 
ity of  a  London  house — of  fashionable  enter- 
tainments. It  would  have  worn  you  out,  dear; 
you  have  no  idea  what  it  means.  I  have  found 
somebody  to  help  us  with  it  all,  Margie,  some- 
body who  will  be  an  immense  comfort  to  you, 
and  make  everything  smooth.     I  have  asked 


326  HER   MEMORY. 

Lady  Mary  Hunt  to  marry  me  and  she  has 
consented." 

Again  the  silence,  the  heavy,  Hving  si- 
lence. She  stood  with  her  arm  round  his  neck; 
he  felt  the  arm  tremble;  that  was  all. 

'^  I  am  glad,"  she  said  at  last. 

*'  I  thought  you  would  be,  dear.     I  knew 

it.     I For  we Things  turn  out  so 

differently  in  life  from  what  one  expects."  He 
hardly  knew  why  he  said  that;  he  was  think- 
ing of  his  own  crushed  ideal,  the  thing  that 
might  have  been! — that  might  have  been! — 
and  never  would  be  now.  "  The  only  hap- 
piness left  on  earth  is  common  sense — to  take 
life  as  it  comes,  and  do  one's  best.  You  are  so 
sensible,  Margie;  I  can't  think,  as  I've  often 
said,  from  where  you  get  your  delightful,  help- 
ful common  sense.  From  your  mother,  to  a 
certain  extent.  But  your  mother  was  more — 
how  shall  I  call  it? — sentimental." 

"  Perhaps,"  said  Margaret.  "  Papa,  I 
should  hke  to  sit  down." 


HER   MEMORY.  327 

She  slowly  withdrew  her  arm.  He  knew 
not  whether  to  be  fully  pleased  or  slightly 
vexed  by  her  calm  satisfaction.  He  had 
judged  her  character  rightly.  He  was  slightly 
vexed. 

He  went  after  her,  folded  her  in  his  arms, 
and  repeatedly  kissed  her.  "  Dearest,"  he 
said,  "  you  have  always  been,  through  all  these 
desolate  years — you  will  always  be  in  the  fu- 
ture— the  light  of  my  eyes,  and  the  joy  of  my 
heart.  My  own  dear  daughter — mother's 
daughter!  My  comfort,  my  hope! "  He 
turned  hastily,  then  pausing.  "  Yes,"  he  said, 
"  her  petition  is  answered.  You  are  happy 
and  good." 

And  he  left  her. 

She  sat  on  the  seat  staring  far  into  the 
darkness  towards  the  sea  that  lay  distant,  a 
dull  mass  of  gloom.  A  little  breeze  cast  shad- 
ows of  black  foliage  across  the  twinkling  stars 
above  her.  From  behind  the  silent  water, 
heavy  clouds  were  creeping  up. 


328  HER  MEMORY. 

"  To  be  happy  and  good?  "  she  repeated 
aloud.  Her  head  sank  on  her  hands.  "  Oh, 
Father  in  Heaven — mother's  God!  my  God! 
— make  me  good!  " 


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"A  story  of  remarkable  interest,  originality,  and  ingenuity  of  con- 
struction."— Boston  Home  Jourtial. 


M\ 


RS.  FALCHION.    $1.25. 


"  A  well-knit  story,  told  in  an  exceedingly  Interesting  way,  and  hold- 
ing the  reader's  attention  to  the  end." 


D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY,  NEW  YORK. 


A\ 


D.  APPLETON   AND    COMPANY'S   PUBLICATIONS. 

Miss   F.   F.   MONTRESOR'S    BOOKS. 

UNIFORM   EDITION.       EACH,  i6M0,  CLOTH. 

THE  CROSS-ROADS.     $1.50. 

Miss  Montr6sor  has  the  skill  in  writing  of  Olive  Schreiner  and 
Miss  Harraden,  added  to  the  fuUness  of  knowledge  of  life  which  is  a  chief 
factor  in  the  success  of  George  Eliot  and  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward.  .  .  . 
There  is  as  much  strength  in  this  book  as  in  a  dozen  ordinary  successful 
novels." — London  Literary  World. 

"  I  commend  it  to  all  my  readers  who  like  a  strong,  cheerful,  beautiful 
story.  It  is  one  of  the  truly  notable  books  of  the  season."— C/««««a/z 
Commercial  TribufU. 

P'ALSE  COIN  OR   TRUE?     I1.25. 

"One  of  the  few  true  novels  of  the  day.  ...  It  is  powerful,  and 
touched  with  a  delicate  insight  and  strong  impressions  of  life  and  character. 
.  .  .  The  author's  theme  is  original,  her  treatment  artistic,  and  the  book  is 
remarkable  for  its  unflagging  interest." — Philadelphia  Record. 

"  The  tale  never  flags  in  interest,  and  once  taken  up  will  not  belaid  down 
until  the  last  page  is  finished." — Boston  Btidget. 

"A  well-written  novel,  with  well-depicted  characters  and  well-chosen 
scenes."— Chica£-o  News. 

"A  sweet,  tender,  pure,  and  lovely  story." — Bujfalo  ComvterciaL 

a-'HE  ONE  WHO  LOOKED  ON.     $1.25. 

"A  tale  quite  unusual,  entirely  unlike  any  other,  full  of  a  strange  power 
and  realism,  and  touched  with  a  fine  humor." — London  World. 

"One  of  the  most  remarkable  and  powerful  of  the  year's  contributions, 
worthy  to  stand  with  Ian  Maclaren's."— .SriVziA  Weekly. 

"One  of  the  rare  books  which  can  be  read  with  great  pleasure  and 
recommended  without  reservation.  It  is  fresh,  pure,  sweet,  and  pathetic, 
with  a  pathos  which  is  perfectly  wholesome." — St.  Paid  Globe. 

"The  story  is  an  intensely  human  one,  and  it  is  delightfully  told.  .  .  . 
The  author  shows  a  marvelous  keenness  in  character  analysis,  and  a  marked 
ingenuity  in  the  development  of  her  story." — Boston  Advertiser. 

TNTO  THE  HIGH W A  YS  AND  HEDGES.     $1.50. 

"'Into  the  Highways  and  Hedges'  is  a  book  not  of  promise  only, 
but  of  high  achievement.  It  is  original,  powerful,  artistic,  humorous.  It 
places  the  author  at  a  bound  in  the  rank  of  those  artists  to  whom  we  look 
for  the  skillful  presentation  of  strong  personal  impressions  of  life  and  char- 
acter."— London  Daily  News. 

"  The  pure  idealism  of '  Into  the  Highways  and  Hedges'  does  much  to 
redeem  modern  fiction  from  the  reproach  it  has  brought  upon  itself.  .  .  . 
The  story  is  original,  and  told  with  great  refinement." — Philadelphia  Pub' 
lie  Ledger,  

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY,  NEW  YORK. 


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